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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 1 month ago

Note

What if Sebastian and MC are fighting some Ashwinders. Sebastian finishes the last one off and turns to MC with a huge grin on his face only for it to drop when he sees her crumpled on the ground, not moving. He realises she's dying and just starts sobbing and babbling because he can't do anything else. It doesn't have to end with MC dying but just reading a distraught Sebastian in love with MC holding them bleeding out in his arms in your phenomenal writing would be gut wrenching and beautiful and I need it.

Between Life and Death | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Words: ~6,200

Tags: Violence, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

Sebastian had always been good in a fight.

It was the one thing he could rely on, the one skill that had carried him through every reckless decision, every brush with death. And tonight, he was in his element—moving like a shadow through the barn, his wand a blur of motion, spells tearing through the air as he cut down Ashwinders one by one.

It was almost fun—if he ignored the fact that he’d nearly died about a hundred times in the past ten minutes.

He ducked low, rolling behind an overturned cart as a jet of green light shattered the wooden beams where his head had been a second ago. He barely had time to breathe before he was up again, wand snapping forward, Expulso sending a wave of concussive force into an advancing foe, throwing the man back so hard he crumpled into the splintered remains of a stall door.

Sebastian grinned, breathless, a sharp rush of adrenaline thrumming through his veins. The barn reeked of damp hay, smoke, and blood, the air shimmering with heat from the relentless spellfire. He pivoted just in time to deflect a Bombarda, the impact knocking him back a step, but he recovered fast—too fast for the poor bastard who had thrown it. With a flick of his wrist, he wrenched the Ashwinder’s wand from his grip, then sent a Diffindo slicing through the air. The man hit the ground with a strangled cry, unmoving.

That was the last of them.

Sebastian exhaled hard, wiping a line of blood from his brow where a near miss had grazed him. He should have felt triumphant. He should have felt relieved.

But instead, he felt uneasy.

It had been a bad idea to split up.

The two of you never did that—never needed to. You had fought and bled together for years, perfecting a rhythm that didn’t require words. It wasn’t just trust, it was instinct. And yet, when you insisted, all stubborn confidence and reckless certainty, he had let you go.

He shouldn’t have.

Because the barn was clear, and you weren’t back yet.

Sebastian turned on his heel, bolting through the side door and into the open field beyond. The night air was thick with the scent of burning ozone, the grass scorched where spells had landed. In the distance, flashes of magic still clashed, illuminating the darkened farm in jagged bursts. Red, green, white, blue.

And then your voice. Strained. Furious. Tired.

Sebastian sprinted toward the sound, heart slamming against his ribs. He caught sight of you just beyond the treeline, tangled in a final skirmish against one last Ashwinder. You were still on your feet, still fighting, but something was wrong.

You were hurt.

Your stance was off—your left side sluggish, your dodges not as sharp as they should have been. Blood darkened your robes where a wound had already torn through fabric, your wand arm trembling under the effort of holding your defense.

Sebastian ran toward you, wand already snapping up as he fired off a volley of Basic Casts. The spells shot through the air in quick succession, streaks of gold against the dark. But the Ashwinder barely reacted—his wand flicked lazily, deflecting each attack with a casual ease that made Sebastian’s stomach twist.

"Ah, there you are," the Ashwinder drawled, sidestepping a stray blast that sent dirt flying. His lips curled into a smirk as his gaze flicked between you and Sebastian. "You Aurors always come in pairs, don’t you? Like a matched set."

Sebastian barely heard him. He was too focused on you. The fight had gone on too long, and you were exhausted.

Sebastian held the Ashwinder off with a flurry of casts, slipping seamlessly to your side. He kept his wand raised, breath coming quick and shallow, sweat dampening his collar as he positioned himself between you and the threat. His body thrummed with adrenaline, his mind racing through every possible outcome, every spell that could end this now.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said breathlessly.

You huffed a breath—almost a laugh, but too ragged, too weak. "You took your time."

"Had to make a dramatic entrance."

The Ashwinder tilted his head, unconcerned, his wand still held lazily at his side. There was something about the way he stood—casual, relaxed, too comfortable for a man facing two Aurors in a fight to the death. He was unbothered. Amused. Like he had already won.

"This isn’t going to end the way you want it to, you know." His voice was calm. Certain.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

He’s stalling.

The realization cut through the haze of adrenaline, sending warning bells shrieking through his mind. He had seen this before, too many times, too many fights that had turned just before the final blow landed.

And then he saw it.

The flick of the man’s wrist. A subtle, practiced movement, too smooth to be anything but deliberate, his fingers curling around his wand as an incantation left his mouth.

Sebastian knew dark magic when he saw it. He had spent a lifetime running from it, pretending his hands weren’t just as stained. He had seen spells most would never dare utter, watched them take root in the bones of men who had deserved far worse. And in that instant, he knew.

This wasn’t just any curse. This was meant to kill.

The spell tore from the Ashwinder’s wand in a flash of crimson, slicing through the air like a blade. It was too quick, too vicious, aimed straight for Sebastian's chest, but before he could react—before he could cast, or dodge, or breathe—

You were already moving. There was no hesitation. No pause. No second-guessing. Just you shoving him aside.

Sebastian stumbled, the force of you knocking the air from his lungs. His boots skidded against the scorched earth, hands grasping at nothing as he lost balance for half a heartbeat.

The night exploded in red light, a sickening crack tearing through the air. It was the sound of flesh meeting force, of limbs jerking in ways they weren’t meant to, your body snapping like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then you hit the ground with a horrible, lifeless thud.

Sebastian’s breath locked in his throat. It was like time had collapsed in on itself, like the world had narrowed down to the unbearable stillness of your body sprawled in the dirt.

“No—NO.”

Sebastian turned sharply, wand raised, ready to kill. Ready to rip the Ashwinder apart, to end him with whatever unforgivable curse came to mind first—

But there was nothing. The Ashwinder was gone. Vanished.

With the danger gone, he fell to his knees beside you, hands reaching, grasping, shaking as he hovered over you.

Your body twitched. Shaking like an exposed wire, snapping with electricity, the aftershocks of magic still crackling through your limbs.

Sebastian reached for your face. “Hey—hey, look at me, you’re fine, it’s fine—”

Blood dripped from your lips. Thick and dark, slipping down your chin, staining your skin.

You weren’t fine.

You weren’t fine, and Sebastian—he should have been faster. He should have seen that spell coming, should have moved in time. In fact, he should have ripped that bastard apart before he had the chance to even cast it.

Sebastian’s breath was a harsh, ragged thing in the back of his throat. His pulse thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else. He was shaking, rage burning through his blood so violently it felt like it might split him apart. But he had bigger problems.

Like the way blood was dripping from your mouth and your nose and your ears. The way you clawed weakly at his robes, desperate for something—for him—as your chest heaved in shallow, gurgling breaths. The way your lips trembled, trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

Sebastian could feel panic rising. He could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, curling around his ribs, clawing at his throat like a vice—but he couldn’t let it take hold. He had to stay calm. He had to fix this.

He was already moving, tugging at the front of your coat, ripping through buttons and fabric as he yanked it open. His fingers fumbled at your shirt, hands tearing at the fabric, desperate to find the wound.

Sebastian's hands slid over your chest, your sternum, your stomach, pressing desperately, trying to stop the bleeding that had no source, his fingers slick with your blood.

“Where—” His voice broke. “Where is it?”

There was nothing.

No. That didn’t make sense. The spell had hit you dead center. It should have burned through you, should have split skin and shattered ribs, and yet—

No gaping hole, no shattered ribs, no jagged tear of flesh where the spell should have struck. No injury to bandage, no visible wound to close.

Only evidence.

Scarring, curling across your skin in intricate, fractal-like patterns branching out from where the curse had struck, winding across your chest and shoulders like the roots of something hungry. And blood. Not from a single source—not pooling from a wound he could heal—but everywhere. Your nose. Your ears. Your mouth. Your eyes.

Your chest rose in shallow, desperate breaths, each one a ragged, gurgling effort that sent fresh rivulets of blood spilling down your chin. Your fingers twitched against his wrist, gripping at him like he was the only thing tethering you here.

Sebastian’s stomach lurched. You were drowning in your own blood.

You were dying.

This was a curse. Not a wound. Not something he could stitch up or set right with a simple spell. This was something deeper. Something worse.

No. No, no, no.

“Stay with me.” Sebastian wiped your mouth with frantic, shaking fingers as he tried to keep his focus, tried to think. He knew dark magic, had studied it in ways he wasn’t proud of, had seen the aftermath of curses that twisted people apart from the inside out. This wasn’t just an attack—this was designed to ruin. To erase.

He needed to counter it.

Sebastian forced magic into his wand, too much, too fast, the raw surge of it crackling along his arm as he pressed the tip to your chest.

The spell nearly shattered on impact, the sheer force of his desperation threatening to unravel it before it could even take shape. But he didn’t care, he couldn’t care., he just had to fix this.

He ran through every healing charm he knew by heart, ones he had practiced for years, ones he had murmured over you a hundred times before, through broken bones and deep gashes, through the bruises and burns of battles past.

"Vulnera Sanentur." His voice trembled, his grip so tight on his wand that his knuckles turned white.

Nothing.

"Episkey." Another pulse of magic, another useless attempt.

"Ferula—"

"Brackium Emendo—"

Every spell bounced off you, the energy dispersing into the air, wasted, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers.

Sebastian’s breaths came sharp and ragged, frustration clawing at his ribs as he tried again. And again. And again.

"Reparifors."

Nothing.

"Anapneo—" His voice cracked. He could hear the blood clear momentarily from your throat, your breath rattling as you sucked in a breath, your chest struggling beneath his hands, but it only took a moment before blood still bubbled from your lips again, your body still shaking, still deteriorating.

"No, no, no—come on—" Sebastian pressed harder, forcing magic into you, trying to make it work, trying to force the spell to take, but the harder he pushed, the worse it got. His own magic sparked, burning too hot, too wild, and it wasn’t fixing you—it wasn’t doing anything. t was like throwing a lifeline into the abyss and feeling it slip through empty air. Like trying to hold back the tide with bare hands.

This wasn’t something he could heal. This wasn't something Sebastian could fix, not by himself.

The realization sent a sickening, leaden weight crashing into his chest, something so final, so wrong, that for a moment, he thought it might break him.

Sebastian had spent years clawing his way out of the darkness, had fought tooth and nail against the temptations of the past, against the reckless desperation that had once led him down paths he couldn’t take back. But right now, with you dying, he would have burned the entire world to ash if it meant saving you.

"Fuck—" His voice broke as he moved, hands desperate as he gathered you against him, pulling you up and into his lap with an urgency that bordered on frantic. His arms locked around you, his body curling protectively around yours like he could somehow shield you from what was happening.

You were feverish. Your skin was slick with sweat and blood, burning against him despite how violently you were shivering. Every breath you took was a ragged, struggling thing, each one sounding more painful than the last.

Sebastian’s hand fumbled for his wand again, clumsy with panic. He cast Anapneo without thinking, without pausing, forcing the magic through even as his voice trembled on the incantation.

A brief moment of relief.

The blood in your throat cleared just enough for you to suck in another gasping, rattling breath. But it wasn’t enough. The moment the magic faded, the blood pooled again, slipping past your lips in sluggish, crimson trails, soaking into your collar, your torn shirt, his hands.

Sebastian cursed under his breath, tugging at his sleeve, using the fabric to wipe at your face, brushing away the fresh blood streaking your chin, catching the slow dribble from your nose, but the blood kept coming, staining the fabric, staining his fingers, staining you.

Another cast. Anapneo. eEnough for another breath, another heartbeat, another second of you still here.

"Hey," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "You're okay. You're—you're gonna be okay."

But he could see it in your eyes.

Fear.

It was deep and wide, unmistakable even as you fought to keep your expression steady. You had faced death a hundred times before, had stood beside him in battle without hesitation, had bled for your duty, for him. And never—not once—had he seen you afraid. But now, your eyes were wide, darting, searching, looking to him for something he couldn’t give you.

You knew you were dying.

Sebastian clenched his jaw. His pulse pounded, his vision tunneling to nothing but you—you, shaking, struggling, fading.

Sebastian had seen bodies before. Had watched people die a thousand times in battle, in back alleys, in the ruins of homes left burning, in the aftermath of violence and choices made too late. He had seen blood soak the earth, had heard the final, rattling gasps of those who didn’t make it, had felt the cold, empty weight of knowing that nothing could be done.

But it was never supposed to be you.

His breath hitched—sharp, broken—panic eclipsing instinct, smothering logic, drowning out the training drilled into him over years of war. He was losing you. The realization hollowed him out, left something splintering and raw in its wake.

And then—

Then he was crying.

Not the restrained, bitter tears of grief he had learned to swallow down, but helpless, frantic sobs, shaking him from the inside out, tearing through his chest with every word, every desperate, useless attempt to keep you here.

"No, no, no—" His voice cracked, hoarse and broken, as his hands pressed against your face, as if he could hold you here, as if his grip alone could keep youalive.

Sebastian sobbed, rocking slightly with you cradled against his chest, his forehead pressed against yours. His free hand tangled in your hair, brushing it back from your damp forehead, his thumb skimming across your temple in a helpless, desperate attempt to soothe, to comfort.

"I should have never left you." The words spilled from him before he could stop them, breaking apart at the edges, raw and unfiltered. "I should have—I never should have let you go off alone, I should have stayed, I—fuck, I should have been faster—”

Another tremor wracked your body, and Sebastian choked on his own breath, panic clawing at his ribs, making it impossible to think.

"No, no, no, stay with me—" He cast Anapneo again, frantic. His vision blurred with hot, stinging tears as you sucked in another shuddering breath, but he knew—he knew—this wasn’t going to last. Eventually, you would lose too much blood. Eventually, no spell would be enough to keep your lungs working.

Sebastian let out a strangled noise, something desperate and untamed, something that sounded more like an animal in pain than a person.

His hand smoothed over your hair again, trembling fingers carding through it as he pressed his lips to your forehead, his tears slipping into your hair.

"You shouldn’t have had to take that curse for me." His voice broke completely, all the air knocked out of him as the weight of it crushed him. "Why did you do that? Why the fuck did you do that? That should have been me—I would have taken it, I would have—" He sucked in a sharp, gasping breath. "I should have protected you. I should have—" His jaw clenched so hard it ached, another sob forcing its way up his throat.

You made a sound—weak, barely there. Your fingers twitched at his sleeve, trying to grasp at him, trying to tell him something.

His arms curled tighter around you, his fingers gripping the back of your neck, pressing you closer.

"I love you."

The words tumbled out before Sebastian could think better of it, before he could stop them.

Because they were true. So fucking true.

"I love you—I should have said it, I should have said it sooner, I—I thought—" A shuddering breath, a ragged sob. "I thought I had more time."

His hands pressed to your cheeks, his thumbs smoothing over bloodied skin, his lips ghosting over your forehead, over your hair, over everywhere as if he could somehow kiss you back to life.

"I love you—" Another whisper, another broken, wrecked admission, his heart tearing itself to shreds in his chest. "Please, you have to stay with me, please—don’t leave me."

His voice cracked. His whole body cracked.

Sebastian Sallow, who had spent his entire life fighting, clawing, surviving, was begging. Praying to every fucking god there was, every single god he didn’t believe in, that something—anything would hear him. That some force greater than himself, greater than the world would take pity on him, on you, and undo this.

Because this was losing you. This was your fingers twitching weakly at his robes before going still. This was your lips parting as if to speak only to fall silent. This was your breath—ragged, struggling, fading.

"You are not dying, you hear me?" His voice was wrecked, shaking as he crushed you against him. "You are not fucking dying, I won’t let you—"

Footsteps. Distant. Faint. Like echoes through water, like a sound trying to reach him from a place that didn’t exist anymore. Then shouting. Urgent, frantic voices cutting through the thick, suffocating haze of his grief, his panic, his desperation.

"Sebastian!"

He knew that voice.

Ominis.

Another followed. "Where is she?"

Anne.

There were others too—more voices he should have recognized, voices calling his name, voices filled with alarm and urgency—but none of them mattered. None of them fucking mattered.

Sebastian’s fingers dug into you, his arms curling impossibly tighter around you as his forehead pressed against yours, his whole body trembling with the force of his sobs. Your skin was so warm, too warm, feverish and slick with sweat, but your chest—

Your chest wasn’t rising.

Your lips had parted just slightly, as if you had meant to speak, to answer him, to tell him something, but there was nothing. No sound. No breath. No pulse beneath his fingertips.

A strangled noise ripped its way from his throat.

"NO—NO, PLEASE—"

Then hands. Hands on him. Grabbing, tugging, trying to pull him away from you, to separate you, and something deep inside of him snapped.

Sebastian screamed.

It was raw, violent, a gut-wrenching, hollowed-out kind of sound that could tear the heavens apart if the gods fucking cared enough to listen. His whole body locked up, every muscle tensing as he fought, thrashing against the hands pulling at him, his grip on you turning bruising, his fingers refusing to let go.

"Don’t fucking touch me—DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME—"

"Sebastian, let go!" Someone was pleading with him, voice trembling, but he couldn’t.

"She’s not breathing!" His voice cracked, his chest heaving with the force of his sobs, his body shaking so violently it felt like he was falling apart. "She’s—she’s not breathing, I—" He gasped, curling over you, shielding you, clutching you so tight it hurt, but he couldn’t let go. "I can’t—I can’t—I can’t let her go—"

"Sebastian, listen to me—*"

"DO SOMETHING!" His head snapped up, his tear-streaked, blood-smeared face twisting with something wild, something feral, something beyond words. "FUCKING DO SOMETHING!"

Anne lunged forward. Her hands clamped around Sebastian’s wrists, firm and unyielding, forcing them away, forcing him away from you. But Sebastian fought.

"Garreth, grab his arm!" A voice snapped, urgency threading through her voice.

Sebastian barely had time to react before strong, freckled hands locked around his bicep, yanking him back. "Sebastian, stop!" Garreth gritted out, struggling against the sheer wildness of him, the way he thrashed like a caged animal, desperate to get back to you.

"I’ve got him—" The other voice came again and an arm hooked around his other side, her grip like iron, "pull him back!"

Sebastian screamed.

"NO—NO—LET ME GO—LET ME GO—"

His voice shattered the air around them, a wrecked, raw agony that vibrated down to his fucking bones, that twisted through his ribs like something that would never heal.

"Sebastian, you have to let them help her!" The woman shouted, struggling to keep hold of him.

"She’s not breathing!" Sebastian roared, his face streaked with tears and blood, his body writhing, his feet digging into the dirt.

"Anne’s got her—" Garreth gritted out, his own voice tight, "Sebastian, stop! You need to come with Natty and I—"

But he couldn’t stop because you were dead. You were fucking dead.

Sebastian's body snapped forward, another frenzied attempt to break loose, and Natty cursed under her breath, her fingers slipping from his arm.

"Garreth, hold on to him—" she ordered before letting go.

Sebastian lurched forward, nearly wrenching free, but Garreth held, struggling to keep him back.

Natsai came into view, her expression grim, her jaw tight. "I’m sorry, Sebastian."

He barely processed the way she raised her wand, the flick of her wrist, the sorrow laced through her voice as she spoke the words—

"Incarcerous."

Ropes lashed around him before he could react. Thick, unyielding ropes snapped tight around his arms, his chest, his legs, dragging him down, binding him, trapping him.

Garreth stumbled slightly as he let go, quickly joining Natsai, Ominis, and Anne at your side.

Sebastian could only watch.

Bound, restrained, helples, his body shaking, his breath coming in sharp, ragged sobs as he knelt in the dirt, completely and utterly fucking useless while the others moved.

Somewhere, buried beneath the all-consuming panic, he knew there was nobody else he could trust with this.

Garreth and Natty—the other top duo in the Auror department, second only to you and him. They had saved more lives than he could count, had fought beside the both of you in battle after battle, had survived things that should have killed them.

Anne—his sister, a professional Healer, with hands steady enough to stitch together miracles.

Ominis—the best fucking Cursebreaker that Sebastian had ever known, with magic deeper than most could ever comprehend.

They were the best of the best.

And still—

Even as Anne worked desperately to force life into you, pressing her wand to your chest, even as Garreth and Natty wiped the blood from your face, their hands trembling as they tried to cool your fevered body, even as they did everything possible to bring you back to life, it wouldn't matter. Because in the end, it came down to breaking the curse, and your life was in Ominis' hands.

All because of Sebastian. Because he had failed. Because he had let you go alone.

Sebastian's vision tunneled in on Ominis, on the precise way he moved, the slow, deliberate motion of his wand over your skin, over the fractal-like curse marks that pulsed against your fevered flesh.

It was taking too long. It was all taking too fucking long.

Sebastian clenched his jaw, his breath coming in sharp, shaking gasps as he yanked at the ropes. “Ominis,” he ground out, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Hurry the fuck up.”

Ominis didn’t respond. His brow was furrowed, his expression drawn in tight, sharp lines as he carefully guided his wand, as if even breathing too hard might unravel everything.

Sebastian struggled against the binds again, his voice rising. “Hurry up! She doesn’t have time for this—”

Ominis snapped.

“If you want her to survive this, then shut the fuck up.”

Sebastian’s breath stalled, the sheer force of Ominis’ voice slamming into him like a hex to the gut.

He had never heard him like this before. Never.

Ominis was always composed, always measured. But now—

Sebastian stared, chest heaving, watching as his best friend hovered over you, his wand moving with painstaking precision, his shoulders tense, his jaw locked so tightly it looked painful.

“If I make one wrong move—if I slip, if I miscalculate, if I rush—” Ominis exhaled sharply, his fingers trembling just slightly as he adjusted his grip. “There will be nothing left to save.”

Sebastian felt like the world had tilted beneath him. A cold sweat broke out over his skin, his pulse thundering so violently he thought he might vomit.

Ominis didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge the way the air had gone deathly silent, didn’t ease the unbearable weight of those words. He just kept moving, slow and meticulous, his wand following the curse marks like he was tracing something delicate, something on the verge of breaking.

Another moment passed. Another eternity.

Sebastian’s breath came sharp and shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs as he lifted his head, watching, waiting, pleading, and then—

A sound. A sharp, gasping breath. A choking, wet inhale.

Sebastian barely had time to process it before Anne gasped, her hands flying to your chest as your body convulsed, your limbs twitching violently, blood dribbling from the corner of your lips as you breathed.

The sound was awful. Rattling, broken, strangled. But it was breathing.

Sebastian’s whole body went taut, his throat constricting with something wild and aching as Anne let out a huff of pure relief.

“She’s— she’s breathing—"

Anne didn’t waste another second.

"Garreth, diagnostics, now!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of fear still choking the air. "Natty, I need a Blood-Replenishing Potion—check my bag, it’s in the side pocket. Ominis, keep the counter-curse steady. If it falters for even a second—"

“I know,�� Ominis snapped, his fingers white-knuckled around his wand.

Sebastian barely heard them. because you were breathing again.

His whole body went weak, his vision blurring as another sob tore from his throat. His head dropped forward, his shoulders shaking violently, every inch of him trembling with the unbearable weight of relief and grief and fucking everything.

Sebastian didn't even notice when ropes binding him disappeared. Didn’t feel the shift of magic as it loosened, didn’t realize his hands were free, didn’t register anything beyond the raw, gasping breaths rattling in his chest.

Because you were breathing.

His whole body trembled, his lungs struggling to keep up with the weight pressing against them—grief and relief colliding so violently inside him that he wasn’t sure how to handle it besides weep.

Then a warm hand landed on his shoulder.

Garreth.

"You're alright, mate," he murmured, voice low. "She's alright. Just breathe, yeah?"

Sebastian didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. But when his shoulders gave out and his body slumped forward, Garreth caught him without a word. His arm wrapped solidly around Sebastian's back, his other hand firm against his shoulder.

Time blurred. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t fucking matter.

All Sebastian knew was that at some point, Anne inhaled sharply and leaned over you, her expression flickering with something urgent, something new.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely reached him—

“She’s asking for Sebastian.”

Everything else fell away. The noise. The movement. The air itself.

Sebastian moved. He didn’t even know how he moved given his exhaustion, didn’t remember breaking free from Garreth’s steadying grip, didn’t remember pushing forward until he was there—until he was kneeling right there, his hands grasping for you before he could stop himself.

You were still too warm, feverish and clammy, but your fingers twitched weakly when Sebastian reached for you, curling toward him, grasping at his sleeve.

Sebastian let out a wrecked, shuddering breath. The he was leaning in, his forehead pressing against yours, his whole body curling around you like he could somehow shield you from everything that had already happened.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking apart. “I’m here, I’m right here—”

Your lips parted, barely moving.

“…Sebastian.”

A whisper. A breath. A single, fragile word. And yet, it was everything.

A sob ripped from his throat, raw and unrestrained, and he didn’t care anymore. Didn’t care that his hands were still shaking as they smoothed over your hair, your cheek, brushing away the damp strands clinging to your fevered skin. Didn’t care that the others were still there, watching. Didn’t care about anything except you.

"You’re okay," he whispered, his voice breaking apart at the edges, hoarse from screaming, from sobbing, from losing you. "You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay."

Your fingers twitched again, curling weakly around his sleeve, barely gripping, but trying. The effort it took for you to do even that made something sharp lodge itself in his throat.

Sebastian turned his head slightly, pressing his lips against your temple, his breath shaking against your skin. He needed you to know he was here. That he wouldn’t let go.

Your lips parted, the corners barely twitching—too small to be a smile, too exhausted to be anything more than an attempt.

But then, your voice.

Faint. Weak. Barely there. But real.

“…Didn’t… mean to worry you.”

Sebastian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, wet with relief and something close to hysteria.

“You nearly died,” he rasped, his voice rough, wrecked. “You did die.”

Your lips parted slightly, another flicker of movement, your brows barely furrowing.

“…But I didn’t.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, something caught between a sob and a laugh, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He pulled back just slightly, his fingers smoothing over your forehead, your cheek, memorizing every inch of you, grounding himself in the fact that you were still warm. Still here.

His lips hovered over your temple, pressing barely-there kisses against your skin, murmuring half-broken words between every breath.

“I love you.” The words spilled from him before he could stop them, raw and aching and uncontrolled. His chest heaved, his body trembling from the weight of everything. "I love you so much. I should've told you sooner—I should've—fuck, I should've done everything sooner—"

Your fingers twitched against him. Sebastian barely heard your response—so quiet, so weak—but he felt it, the way your lips moved, the way you pressed ever so slightly into him.

"—love you too."

Sebastian stilled. His throat tightened. His heart stopped.

For a moment, he thought he imagined it. Thought his exhausted, grief-addled mind had conjured the words he so desperately wanted to hear.

But then—then you smiled.

And he knew.

You had said it.

A sharp, wrecked breath tore from his throat, his chest constricting so violently it hurt.

He didn’t deserve this moment. Didn’t deserve to hear those words, not after everything. Not after how he’d failed to protect you, how he’d let you get hurt, how he’d let you die.

But you had said it anyway.

Sebastian let out a sound—half-laugh, half-sob. His heart was a mess, a tangled knot of fear and relief and love so overwhelming that it threatened to consume him whole.

He had nearly lost you. Had watched you slip away, had felt the unbearable weight of helplessness pressing down on him as your life balanced on the razor’s edge. And now, you were here. Weak, barely holding on, but here.

And you had said it.

You said it.

Sebastian exhaled, his breath warm against your skin as he tilted his head, as he pressed his lips to your forehead, your temple, then your cheek, his nose nudging against yours as his breath hitched.

And then, slowly, carefully—so much more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life—he pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t how he had imagined his first kiss with you would go.

Not with blood still drying on your skin, not with the taste of salt from his own tears mixing between you, not with your body still weak and trembling beneath his hands.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you were alive.

323 notes · View notes

zorostitties · 2 days ago

Text

Intertwined; 1

⤕ Luffy and you were like two sides of the same coin: opposites in every way, but similar in what mattered the most. Tied by a vow made with the purity of a child's heart, life keeps trying to tear you apart - but the vow that intertwined your destinies would not be broken so easily. Or, Luffy promised to marry you someday when you were kids. This is how he keeps his promise.

pairing: monkey d. luffy x (f) reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, arranged marriage, fluff, angst, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, toxic family relationships, death/grief, when i say slow burn i mean it

rating: 18+

word count: 6k

A/N: I've had this fic in mind for ages but finally managed to squeeze the words out of my brain thanks to the encouragement of my followers 🥹 This fic is an attempt to write Luffy in love in the most beliavable/close to canon way possible. Let's hope I'll succeed :D - This is a afab!reader insert, so no physical traits will be described EXCEPT that I'm giving you reading glasses because Luffy needs to give you a silly nickname based on your appearance like he does to everybody. - If you like the fic, PLEASE interact with it so I can keep motivated to write the next parts 🥹 And per usual, English is not my first language. Enjoy!!

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

- PART 1 -

"A secret shared by us alone, a smile the wind would carry. In the yard, just you and I knew how the world was merry."

- Cecilia Meireles

➛ 8

Heavy rain fell over the Goa Kingdom the night you killed that man.

Alex Husquid was his name. A small nobleman, heir to the Husquid fortune and businesses. Born and raised at the Dawn Island, probably never left the East Blue and probably never would have wanted to, since his source of power and prestige was located here. Married to a woman called Frida. Father of three healthy boys, all around your age.

Just a common, law-abiding citizen in this god forsaken corner of the world.

But his successful whiskey business pissed someone bigger than him, which meant he had to die.

You didn’t know who your contractors were – you never did. They hid behind Den Den Mushis with voice distortion or faceless messengers. Discretion and secrecy was the soul of the business; that went both ways. The contractors didn’t know who you were either. Didn’t know your face, or your brothers’ faces, or your mother’s, or your father’s, or your grandfather’s…

No one should see the face of a Scarpia family member and live to tell the next day.

Your breathing echoed inside the mask made especially to hide your small face. Your grandfather threw the runes made of bones the day you were born, and the runes said that your animal – the one that would represent your soul the most – was the wolf. And so, your mask was the image of a wolf’s face. Eerily white, contrasting with the black raincoat you wore.

The wolf is an auspicious animal, your grandfather said. Lone. Smart. Ferocious. Good to business.

The entire family expected you to honor this mask that night.

It was your first trial – the first time an assassination was assigned to you, the first time you’d have to take a commission on your own. Up until then, you’d only assist your brothers or watch them work from far. But you were eight years old now, and that was the right age to be initiated. You had trained enough. You were ready.

Just a small commission. Alex Husquid was a nobleman, but not that noble. This little and humid archipelago in the East Blue was far from being important. Not a death that would cause a stir. It honestly even felt that your father was belittling your capabilities with this commission. Why were you assigned to kill a short ugly nobleman at the end of the world, while Crowley who was only one year older got commissioned with Marines or troublesome pirates in the New World?

Because I’m the girl, you thought with resigned anger.

Well. Whatever.

It’s not like you wanted to impress them anyway. This was boring. The travel to the East Blue was boring, this commission was boring, having to stare at Landon’s ugly mustache the entire travel was boring. The only good thing that came from this initiation is that it also happened to be your birthday. The only day in the year where you had permission to do whatever you wanted.

So you just had to get this over with.

Alex Husquid was alone in his office, scribbling something on his desk. You watched him intently from the roof of the nearest house. Heavy rain fell over your head, lightnings illuminated the night sky from time to time, thunders roared. This storm would be your perfect ally.

Alex had left a breach on his window, probably to let some fresh air enter the room despite the rain.

That mistake would cost his life.

It wasn’t hard to jump from the roof into his room. Your feet made no noise when they touched the carpet. Your presence, barely a breeze from outside. But despite your best efforts, it called Alex’s attention.

Your father and grandfather had talked about it many times – and you had seen it from far, too, observing your brothers work. Humans have a weird sixth sense. They somehow always know death is near.

And death, to him, came in the form of a child.

Alex got a bit startled, but sat down again on his leather chair. All he saw was a kid wearing a white wolf mask. All he thought was that one of his sons put a funny costume to spook him.

A smile was beginning to take form on his chapped lips.

He didn’t have time to complete it.

You focused on your right hand. Your nails grew, sharpened like blades. When you launched yourself towards him, you made no noise – no disturbance in the room despite your inhumane speed, no wrinkles on the carpet. Silent. Fast. Unnoticeable. Like it should be.

Your nails slit his throat faster than his mind could comprehend. A deep cut, deep enough so he wouldn’t be able to scream. His eyes widened. He gagged in silent despair. He looked at the figure of a child standing over his desk, their face hidden behind a white wolf mask, and tears welled up his eyes.

He would be dead in a minute.

You knew it’d take a long time for anyone to find his body. The entire house was asleep. So you decided to stand there and watch until life completely left his body – until he stopped trembling, until he was soaked with his own blood, until his eyes were empty.

Just an uninhabited corpse.

Boring.

You flew out the same window you used to enter.

While landing on the nearest roof, you looked down at your right hand. Your nails were back to normal; your fingertips were bloody. You frowned. That wasn’t a clean cut. You’d have to work on that.

“Congratulations on your first solo commission, Young Mistress.”

An instinctive huff emerged from your chest. Of course, you knew he’d be around – he was always around, this boring old man. You turned around to face Landon and his annoying mustache.

The butler wore his usual boring black suit and boring white gloves and boring umbrella to protect him from the rain. Despite his words, he had the same blank expression over his features. Hell, was he boring.

“I should note, however, that you were sloppy. Your target noticed your presence. You also caused unnecessary mass bleeding. A good assassin is always–“

“Clean.” You concluded for him with annoyance.

Landon didn’t seem to care. He never seemed to care about anything.

“It’s past midnight. It is now your birthday. What do you wish to do?”

“I wish to be left alone.” You didn’t bother looking back at him as you took off your mask and shoved it inside the bag crossed around your chest. “Do not follow me.”

Landon wasn’t surprised. You spent most of your time trying to run away from him, his lessons, his unstoppable and overwhelming watch. Sometimes you managed to get some time alone. Most times you didn’t.

But it was your birthday, so today he had to obey.

Not that you’d have much to do in this boring island at this boring kingdom at the least interesting part of the ocean.

At least, you’d be truly alone for the next 24 hours.

You jumped from roof to roof away from Landon, satisfied to know that he wasn’t following you for once – and wondering if this island could entertain you in the only day of freedom you had.

The town was boring. As expected.

Small. The buildings weren’t very tall, there weren’t many nice stores or restaurants. It was even funny how the people living at this part of the island walked around with high chins and chests full of pride… their city, their properties and titles were nothing compared to the magnificent islands of the New World. But they were just simple minded creatures, you knew; they never planned to leave this place. They would never understand that the world was vast and that they didn’t matter on the grand scheme of things.

So you didn’t waste much time there.

Then there was the giant junkyard at the other side of the city, separated from it by a high wall. Mountains and mountains of trash, rubble and junk extended for maybe two or three kilometers. It smelled as bad as you’d expect and a strange gray fog hovered in the air. Gray Terminal was a suitable name, indeed.

Surprisingly, that place was a bit more interesting than the town.

Poor people gathered like vermin over meat around the junk mountains. Scavengers looking for anything valuable. In the span of maybe thirty minutes, you saw a few fights popping here and there. It was a bit entertaining to sit and watch how normal people fought. But you decided to leave not only because the place really smelled bad, but because your good clothes and your neat pigtails would probably draw unwanted attention.

So you walked into the woods nearby – and finally, things got interesting.

One or two hours of walking took you deep into the forest. It was very obviously a rainforest with the heat and humidity expected from it, which made you take your raincoat and jacket off, shoving them inside your backpack. You quickly realized you were, in fact, climbing a mountain. The human sounds were replaced with the sounds of nature – leaves shuffling, birds chirping, and the noises of many other unknown animals.

What caught your attention at first was the sheer size of the trees – the deeper you got into the mountain, the bigger they got. Some seemed to be taller than thirty meters. Some branches were thicker than actual tree trunks.

But you soon found out that the trees weren’t the only giant things there.

The floor shook beneath your feet in regular intervals. Steps of something extremely heavy.

You expanded your perception to a wider radius than what your eyes could see and your ears could hear – and came to a conclusion. Immediate danger.

You swiftly jumped up to the nearest tree, standing on its lower branch – which was still pretty high, probably eight meters away from the ground, and waited in complete silence.

What came from between the trees made your eyes widen.

A bear. But not just any brown bear. That thing was colossal. Ridiculously big. Its claws seemed to be as tall as you.

And finally, you were excited about something.

You immediately took the small notebook from your backpack and started sketching the beast, silently regretting not bringing a Den Den Mushi to take a picture of it (you knew Landon would put a tracking device on it if you brought one with you, so you decided not to). You sketched the creature as fast as you could before it could disappear inside the forest again, making quick annotations around the drawing.

You knew that many islands had strange and unique fauna and flora, though you’d only read about it in books. You’d never seen abnormal animals like that, and honestly didn’t expect to find anything like this out of the Grand Line.

A small smile grew on your lips.

Your birthday wouldn’t be that boring, after all.

You looked down at the notebook and tightened your eyes. Oh… the bear came and went so quickly that you didn’t have time to put your round reading glasses on. After taking them from the backpack, you could see with clarity that you missed many details. You sat down on the branch and made the finishing touches.

It was time to move on.

You began to feel a little hungry past noon.

Not that you weren’t used to not eating for long periods of time. A good assassin must be in control of all of their physiological necessities at all times. What if a commission takes place at a critical environment? What if you need to be undercover for long periods of time to study your target? Things like hunger should be brushed aside. You’d only eat when your body begged for it.

But you were so entertained that your rumbling belly was just an afterthought.

Only a day wouldn’t be enough to catalog all of what you’ve found. Who would’ve thought this insignificant island would have so much to offer?

Going deeper into the mountain, you saw even more strange animals. Giant tigers and more bears and alligators in a river nearby. Why did the fauna at this island became so gigantic? What must’ve happened in their evolutionary process? In the span of only a few hours, you filled more than twenty pages with sketches and notes.

Morpho menelaus, you scribbled at the top of the page while checking your Insect Encyclopedia to be completely sure. It was pretty unmistakable: the beautiful blue wings of the butterfly resting in front of your eyes couldn’t be replicated by any other species. You held your breath, made sure to not produce any sound as to not scare the butterfly away. Why didn’t I bring a Den Den Mushi?, you scolded yourself for the hundredth time. It would’ve made your life so much easier.

You were almost finishing the sketch. This butterfly had a very specific black pattern at the tip of its wings and you wanted to convey it perfectly. You rushed to catch its details before it would go away–

“What are you doing?”

You gasped and turned around in a jump.

Of course, you knew there was something approaching – but it didn’t exude immediate danger, so you assumed it was just a squirrel or something.

It definitely wasn’t a squirrel.

It was a… boy.

The stranger looked at you with round, curious dark brown eyes – so dark that they almost looked completely black. A bit shorter than you, but definitely your age; his hair was a mess of black, almost completely hidden under a straw hat that was too big for his head. His olive skin was covered with dirt, just like the rest of his clothes – a red tank top and battered jeans shorts. He had a thin curvy scar under his left eye and a bandaid over the bridge of his nose.

He blinked.

You blinked.

But slowly, your surprise dissipated. A frown set on your face.

...Boring.

You turned around. The butterfly had obviously flown away. An annoyed sigh went past your lips.

You started to walk away.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” He whined. His voice was annoyingly high pitched. You heard the tap tap of his sandals fast approaching. “What are you doing here? Are you lost?”

“Do I look lost?” You groaned between gritted teeth. Why did you even answer him?

“Well, then, are you stupid?”

This made you turn to look at him.

He didn’t seem bothered by your angry face.

“Why the hell would you want to climb Mt. Colubo alone?” The boy continued. “Never seen you ‘round Foosha or downtown. You’re from High Town, aren’t you? With those fancy clothes and all?”

You went back to walking.

He followed.

“This forest is pretty dangerous, did you know that? It’s not a place for the weak.” Then what are you doing here, too?, is what you wanted to ask, but you resigned to stay silent. “It’s full of monsters and poisonous snakes and bandits. They’ll want to steal you.” More silence. “By the way, my name is–“

“Shhhh!” You shushed him angrily before jumping to the branch of a tree.

You immediately opened your notebook again and started scribbling while crouching down.

To your distaste, you heard him jump after you. “What are you–?”

“Shhhh!” You shushed more aggressively this time. “You’ll scare it away!”

The boy tilted his head to the side and finally found what you were looking at while sketching rapidly.

“Ooooh,” he was surprisingly quiet this time.

Onychocerus albitarsis, you wrote at the top of the page. Commonly known as Scorpion Beetle. The brown, black and white insect moved slowly, its long antennae scooping the wood beneath it.

“This one’s pretty poisonous, did you know that?” He said. You didn’t need to turn your head to know he was looking from over your shoulder.

“Hmm.”

“I learned it the worst way.” He hissed as if remembering the pain of the sting. “You ain’t never seen one before? There are plenty of these here.” Silence. “None at the High Town, I guess? Yeah, I don’t think these stuck up people like insects.” More silence. “Is this why you’re here? To see insects?” He leaned away slightly. “Are you some sort of insect hunter?”

You paused for a second.

Shit. He definitely saw the family crest embroidered on the back of your shirt: the red symbol of a scorpion. You were sloppy once more. No one was supposed to see that family crest.

At the same time, there was no way this boy would know what it meant, so you decided to brush it aside.

“Well, I’m a pirate.” He seemed proud of himself, a sonorous smile in his voice. “Huh, not yet, but I’ll be one day. I’m gonna be the King of Pirates!” Silence. The boy hummed after a few seconds. “You’re pretty boring, did you know that, Four Eyes?”

You whipped your head at him for the first time.

“What did you just call me?”

“Four Eyes.” He was, once again, unbothered by your ferocious glare. His eyes fell over your notebook. “But you draw pretty well. Not better than me, though. Oh! It’s gone.”

You turned back in time to see the beetle flying away.

You sighed deeply and got up again while looking at him angrily. The boy got up, too. He either didn’t understand why you were angry or simply didn’t care.

“...I only wear glasses when I need to read,” you said between gritted teeth.

He blinked.

“And?”

You rolled your eyes and jumped to the floor again.

“Where are you going now?”

“Why are you following me?” You retorted. From the corner of your eye, you saw him rest both hands behind his head in a relaxed position.

“I got nothing better to do and I don’t see other kids here often.” Then, he opened a wide grin – you could probably see all his teeth with that smile. “Let’s be friends!”

You looked ahead again, feeling your stomach twirl.

Your father’s deep voice echoed inside your mind.

A Scarpia family member does not have friends.

Friends are weaknesses. A Scarpia only needs another Scarpia.

You tightened your fists.

No one should see the face of a Scarpia family member and live to tell the next day.

If you followed these rules to a ten, you’d have killed that boy already.

It’s what your father would have wanted. It’s what your brothers would have done. You’d seen them doing that before. This weird straw hat kid had already seen your face unmasked and the family crest on your back. If Landon were here, he would even have finished him for you.

It wouldn’t be hard to kill him. He wouldn’t even notice you slicing his throat with your nails.

But…

He wasn’t a commission. You didn’t want to dirt your fingertips with blood if you didn’t need to. There was no way this boy even knew what the Scarpia family was.

So you quickened your pace without looking back.

He followed.

You started running.

He followed.

You sprinted.

“Hey!” He yelled…

And followed.

You ran in zigzag in between the trees, climbing thick vines and jumping down cliffs, trying to mislead him – but damn, that boy actually seemed to know where he was going, differently from you. He was slower, but that was definitely an advantage. Shit, stop following me! Leave me alone! Why are you following me anyway?! How are you keeping up?!

Why– why are you laughing?!

Actually laughing. Not in a mocking way. He laughed at the top of his lungs, that huge grin never leaving his face.

“I’m gonna catch you!” He yelled.

“No, you won’t!” You yelled back. Why were you yelling?

“Just you wait!” And he laughed again.

That stirred something inside you.

You focused all of your strength in your legs; you visualized the energy in your body gathering there like white lines. The burst of adrenaline. A technique to be used in an escape situation.

When you got impulse to step forward, the floor cracked beneath your feet.

You sprinted away – so fast that it almost felt like flying. The world around you went by in a confusing blur, wind howled on your ears with the speed. As you didn’t know the area, you didn’t know exactly how many meters you ran – five hundred meters? Seven hundred? Your record was nine hundred meters, and you hoped to reach a kilometer soon, preferably before Crowley could do it.

It took a lot of effort to stop.

You rested both hands over your knees, panting. That was the disadvantage of this technique: it was too tiring. You couldn’t do it more than once a day and you still didn’t know how to take turns, always sprinting on a beeline. Your father could do it as many times as he wanted and change directions in the blink of an eye. You hoped to reach his level someday.

Well. That was enough to mislead that weirdo, at least.

You straightened your back and dried your sweaty forehead with the back of your hand. You had aimed north, which meant you went higher into the mountain… you’d have to find your compass inside the backpack to be sure. Luckily, you had been marking the trees as to find the way out easily–

And that’s when someone slapped the back of your neck.

You turned around in a jump, already taking a fight stance–

It was that boy.

He grinned so wide that it looked like his cheeks would rip apart.

“Tag! You’re it!” He announced before turning around and– and–

And running away.

You stood there, completely shocked, following him with your eyes.

How… how…?

Did he reach you in a minute and half?

He ran over five hundred meters in a minute and half?

Who the hell was that boy?!

He realized you weren’t following after a while. He turned around, still smiling – but confusion covered his features.

“You’re it!” He yelled from there as if reminding you.

He was distancing himself from you. You should take that opportunity to run in the opposite direction and finally get rid of him. But something made you stop – something that completely silenced the voice of reason, the voice of your father.

Curiosity.

“How did you do that?” You asked. He frowned.

“Huhhhh??” He put his hand in a shell near his ear. Oh. He was quite far.

“How–“ You cleaned your throat. Screaming was not something you were used to do. “How did you do that?!”

“Do what?!”

“Reached me so fast?!”

“Oh!” He grinned again – but there was something a bit mischievous about it this time.

You watched, confused, as the boy spun his right arm around many times.

You watched, shocked, when he threw his arm after taking impulse and it stretched.

It stretched and stretched and stretched to a tree standing by your side. He entangled his stretched arm around the trunk; his arm distended as if it was a rubber band and he came flying towards you.

You watched, jaw dropped, when he landed in front of you. His arm untangled from around the trunk and went back to normal with a very sonorous snap.

He grinned proudly.

“Like that!”

It took you a few seconds to recover.

“...You ate a Devil Fruit.”

He nodded.

“The Gomu Gomu no Mi. I became the rubber man!” He pinched his own cheek and it stretched too, before releasing it with, again, a sonorous snap. As if he needed to demonstrate it even more.

That was definitely a surprise.

You didn’t even think someone from this small island, so far from the Grand Line, would even know what a Devil Fruit is – let alone eat one.

You frowned slightly.

“My father says Devil Fruits are for the weak. Someone should be strong based on their inherent body capabilities alone.” That was hammered into your head over and over again… and you noticed with some distaste that you kind of sounded like Landon.

The boy crossed his arms. The smile never left his lips.

“Well, your father’s an idiot!”

Your jaw dropped again.

That scrawny dirty looking boy just called Scarpia Drachen an idiot.

And at that moment – something very very strange and very very unusual happened inside of you, something you couldn’t control, and it was like you could hear Landon’s annoying husky voice echoing in your ears that you should always be in control of your body and your reactions–

But you couldn’t help it.

You laughed.

You covered your mouth and bent over slightly, the other hand gripping the fabric of the shirt over your stomach. I shouldn’t laugh! This is so so so disrespectful! I will be scolded for sure!

But– But Landon wasn’t there. Or your father. Or any of your brothers.

Just the weird stretchy boy.

And he thought that was funny, too. He giggled as if proud of himself.

“By the way, how did you do that?” He asked, crossing his arms. “You ran so fast that the ground cracked! That was faster than Ace! Is that an insect hunter ability or something?”

You didn’t know who the hell Ace was and you didn’t feel like asking. You straightened your back after swallowing the laughter. “Yeah. We… we train to be faster than everybody.”

Why were you talking to him? Why did you answer his question? Why hadn’t you mislead him yet? What was wrong with you? No no no– that was wrong. You needed to get away from him as fast as possible.

But, for some reason, you didn’t move.

The straw hat boy grinned mischievously again and rubbed his hands.

“But I bet you’re not faster than me! I already know your technique, it won’t surprise me anymore!” He started walking on his back at a fast pace while still grinning at you. “C’mon, you’re it!”

But you still didn’t move.

“Do you… want me to chase you?”

“Duuuuh, that’s how it works, Four Eyes!”

You still didn’t understand.

“Why? Is this some sort of training?”

He finally stopped running.

“How come, why?” Now he looked confused. “Because it’s fun!”

The boy grinned.

It… seemed so easy for him. So obvious. Like you were the stupid one there.

...Fun?

Fun was the opposite of boring.

You weren’t bored searching for animals and cataloging them. You liked to draw, you liked to be left alone. You knew that the right thing to do would be to distance yourself.

But he was jigging from side to side excitedly and that made your heart beat faster for some reason. The same way it was beating faster when you were trying to mislead him. Because of adrenaline, you knew – that was the obvious answer. But maybe… maybe…

It was because it was fun.

You started to walk towards him. He laughed excitedly and turned around.

Then you were running.

Then you were sprinting.

He changed directions either with his legs or gripping tree trunks with his abnormal ability to drastically take turns. You ran after him, unable to use that burst of adrenaline again, but that wasn’t necessary… if you did it, you’d reach him quicker and it would all be over too soon. It wouldn’t be fun.

So you caught him without cheating. But he wasn’t angry or disappointed when you did – he just laughed at the top of his lungs and yelled, my turn!

And then you were being chased.

And then you were laughing.

And then he caught you and it was your turn to yell you’re it!

And then you were breathless and your stomach hurt from laughing but you didn’t want to stop.

Because… because it was fun.

“I wanted meat!” He whined unhappily.

You side eyed him while munching your slice of watermelon. Even though he kept complaining, he was eating his anyway – and it was a bit scary how fast he ate and how big his bites were. He was finishing his… second? Third watermelon? You weren’t counting.

When both of you got way too tired – and that took a lot: the sun was starting to set – you decided to rest for a bit and eat something. A clearing nearby had a plantation of watermelons. It was obviously cultivated by someone, but turns out he had no idea who it was or if they would mind if you’d take some. You certainly didn’t mind taking them.

You’d been sitting side by side, facing a cliff with a gorgeous view of the forest and sunset ever since.

“And how would you find meat?” You asked absentmindedly while munching.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’d hunt! There are tons of weird animals here!” He took another big bite and tilted his head at you. “You’re kind of slow, aren’t you, Four Eyes?”

“My name’s not Four Eyes,” you said between gritted teeth. You didn’t even realize you were still wearing the glasses… you took them off and shoved them inside the backpack.

“What’s your name, then?”

You froze.

You hadn’t given him a name. He hadn’t told his either, even though you’d been playing for the past few hours.

But you couldn’t give him your real name. That was a basic rule: no one should see your face. No one should know your name. Every interaction with an outsider had to be calculated and well-thought out for the safety of the family.

The straw hat boy had already seen your face and the family crest.

But… it’s not like he had any idea what the Scarpia family was, right? So giving him a fake name would suffice.

“...Wolfie,” you lied after the first thing that came to mind. You immediately regretted it, realizing how silly it sounded after the made up name left your mouth, but it was too late to correct it now.

He nodded and swallowed a big bite before grinning. His mouth was all dirty with watermelon juice. “My name’s Monkey D. Luffy and I’m gonna be the King of Pirates!”

He didn’t seem to notice how stupid your “name” sounded… great. “...You already said that.” You looked ahead again. The sky had pretty hues of pink and orange as the sun disappeared slowly behind the horizon line. The treetops swayed softly with the wind, resembling sea waves of green. “Why do you wanna be a pirate?”

Why were you asking?

You had no idea. You weren’t supposed to find more about this Luffy boy. You weren’t supposed to be interested. But at the same time – you’d never see him again anyway, so what was wrong with making a question?

Right?

“Is it for the treasures?” It should be, you remarked, given how ragged his clothes were. Well, there was nothing wrong with wanting a fortune.

Luffy’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Pirates are the coolest people in the world!” He declared, gesticulating widely and setting the half eaten watermelon aside for the first time. “They go anywhere they want, do whatever they want and take what they want! They are free!” The more he talked, the more excited he looked. “My friend Shanks– he’s a pirate, too, and he goes on all sorts of adventures. He told me about it, all the islands and people and enemies he faced!” Luffy held the brim of his straw hat softly. “I made a promise that I’d become a great pirate like him so we can meet again in the sea someday!”

You hummed quietly.

The watermelon tasted sweet, way too sweet. You took another bite and munched it slowly.

“Freedom, huh?” Your voice was just a little bit louder than the wind. “Must be nice.”

“Right?” Luffy elbowed your arm excitedly. “The world is so much bigger than Mt. Colubo or Foosha Village or the Gray Terminal. There are so many islands out there! So many weird monsters and strong guys to fight!” He tightened his hands in fists and punched an invisible enemy. “That’s why me and Ace train everyday. To get even stronger!”

You side eyed Luffy again. He had an interesting ability, you had to admit, even though you were taught to despise Devil Fruit users. And yeah, he was definitely faster and stronger than the average kid your age. But… he was far from being strong. He was very killable, in fact. If he actually wanted to go to the seas someday, he had a long way to go.

Whatever. It was none of your business.

But even so – his speech about how vast the world is was kind of… touching, in a way. You knew about that, too. You’d been to many places, following your brothers in commissions or being taken to harsh environments to train. But you’d never… paid attention to anything. Everything was just training or business. Everything was boring.

But you thought Dawn Island was boring at first too – until you had the time and freedom to explore it and find all these giant animals and insects. Until you could look closely.

Maybe he had a point.

You swallowed another bite before speaking.

“There is an island I’d like to visit someday, you know.” You started slowly. Hesitantly. Luffy was paying attention, which somehow made you nervous. You weren’t used to that – someone actually listening to you. “I mean… an archipelago on the Grand Line. The islands are full of giant insects.”

“Giant insects?!” Luffy widened his eyes. “Do you think there are giant beetles there too?!”

“From what I’ve read, yeah. Beetles larger than houses. Spiders taller than giraffes. And carnivorous plants, too, big enough to eat a person.”

The straw hat boy giggled excitedly and bounced a bit while still sitting. He seemed unable to not move for a long time, you noticed. “You could fill entire notebooks with your drawings there!” Luffy eyed you up and down with somewhat of a smug expression. “Why haven’t you been there yet, though? You don’t look broke. I bet you have enough money to travel wherever you want.”

Your shoulder dropped a bit. “The Boin Islands are far. Very very far. And… I don’t think my parents would let me.”

Because it’d be useless. A waste of money and time. It wouldn’t make you a better assassin in their opinion… so what was the point?

Luffy filled his chest and pointed at himself with his thumb proudly. “No problem. I’ll take you there when I become a pirate! My ship will be huuuge with, like, two masts and a big crew. No storms will sink us. We’ll get there and see all the giant bugs!”

For the hundredth time that day, you had the strange, instinctive reaction to giggle. You had the even stranger thought that, yeah, traveling with him would be fun.

The straw hat boy stretched his arms and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hah… the sun’s setting, I should get back before Ace gets worried.” Luffy got up and looked down at you excitedly. “Come with me, Wolfie! The forest’s even more dangerous at night, but our place is safe. We got meat for dinner, too.”

It was a bit insane how he could think of eating more after chomping so many watermelons.

But… his reminder that the sun was setting filled you with sudden sadness.

It took you hours to get to the top of the mountain… it’d take more hours to get down. If you didn’t leave now, Landon would climb it to find you – he always found you somehow – and to see you with this boy would put you in serious trouble.

It would put him in serious trouble, actually. In danger.

So you sighed and got up, too, taking the backpack from the floor and putting it on your back.

“Sorry, I have to go now.”

Luffy quirked one eyebrow. “You sure? Ain’t you gonna get lost? Is someone coming to pick you up?” He put his hands on each side of his waist. “I’m serious, the forest is really dangerous at night! Not even us go around when it’s dark!”

“I’ll be fine.” It was a bit interesting how this boy, much weaker than you, seemed so worried for your safety. That was also unusual.

You stood there awkwardly, not knowing exactly what to do. You also weren’t used to goodbyes.

“Hm… I’ll… get going then.” You started to walk backwards while gripping the trap of the backpack nervously. “It was… it was nice meeting you.”

Luffy smiled and nodded. “See ya!”

You hesitated before turning around.

See ya. He probably thought he’d see you again soon. That was funny.

No. That was a bit sad.

Your eyes kept glued to the floor, shoulders dropped, as you made your way down the hill slowly. Maybe you could go back and spend a little more time with him… maybe meet this Ace he kept talking about. You could play a little more. Sketch a few more insects.

No no no. Landon was nearby. He’d kill Luffy on the spot. He had permission to kill anyone he deemed a threat to your safety or your education – and he’d do it without consulting your opinion.

It was better for Luffy to never see you again.

...Your steps slowed even more.

For the first time, you remember Alex Husquid – the man you killed as soon it turned midnight. How you stood there and watched as his eyes emptied. How it made you feel nothing but boredom. Just a commission, after all, like any other.

But why the idea of seeing that same thing happen to Luffy bothered you so much?

This… this weird short boy you met just a few hours ago?

Why did the fact that you’d never see him again made your heart tighten like that?

You suddenly stopped on your tracks.

Wait.

Maybe… maybe you could. Maybe you could see him again.

You turned around, ready to run up the hill again to find Luffy– but turns out he was still standing there, watching you go.

Your heart throbbed loudly. Your hands were sweating. That was wrong wrong wrong. But even so–

“Luffy!” You called. He smiled from far and waved. “Can I… Can I see you again next year?”

Luffy narrowed his eyes and put his hands over his knees. “Huuhhh?!”

Oh– right. You were already too far.

You tightened your hands into fists, feeling a mix of anxiety and embarrassment, before screaming:

“Can I see you again next year?!”

This time, your voice echoed through the woods.

Luffy widened his eyes in surprise. “Next year?! That’s too long!”

You were immediately taken aback. Was he brushing you aside?

“I… I live very far!” That wasn’t a lie. “Can I come or not?!”

Luffy straightened his back.

He grinned again – one of his big, big grins, so big that his eyes closed tight, so large that you felt your own lips curving up, too.

“Of course! I’ll be waiting for you!”

Why were you bouncing a bit? Why did a light weird squeal went past your lips?

“Okay! Let’s meet right here!”

“Okay!”

“Let’s play even more next time!”

“I’ll be even faster than you!” He giggled smugly.

“No, you won’t!” Oh no– you still had to leave. You turned around slowly and waved him a last goodbye. “Bye!”

Luffy waved back excitedly.

Finally, you turned completely and walked down the hill.

Then you were running.

Then you were laughing.

It was probably because of the adrenaline, you knew, but you also knew that it was because you had fun. Because you had something to look forward to – someone to look forward to.

And that was far from being boring.

No rain fell over the Goa Kingdom the day you made your first friend.

#luffy x reader #one piece #monkey d. luffy #one piece x reader #op x reader #luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x you #one piece luffy #straw hat luffy #op luffy #monkey d. luffy x you #monkey d. luffy x reader #mugiwara no luffy #no preview i am impatient idc idccc #PLS COMMENT IF YOU LIKE IT PLS PLSSSSS I REALLY WANT TO KEEP WRITING THIS FIC BUT I WANT INTERACTIONS TOOOOO

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soullessdianthus · 2 years ago

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𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 | 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐱 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠)

Summary: During the mission somewhere in Austria, König takes an interest in TF 141 medic. Little did he know, she's Lieutenants Riley's girlfriend.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐

A/N: Possessive/Protective boyfriend Ghost? Yes, double and give to the next person. Also inserted Hank/Connor "lieutenant" reference, I just find it funny. Y/C ━ Your Codename (have fun, pick something babes) Poorly translated German ━ correct me if needed!

Warnings: nothing, reader is eastern european coded (we deserve more recognition as reader inserts ꃋᴖꃋ )

Word count: 1.8k

The tree line of the thick forest melted into the base of the rocky mountains. Your gaze traveled across its pointy shapes and up higher - there hadn’t been a single cloud on the sky that day, causing a slight heatwave.

You let your body slightly wag as the car passed over surface bumps on the earthen road. The dry lump grew in your throat as the dust hovered all over the convoy and all you could think of was a sip of cold, mineral water.

Soon, you reached the small town in Austria, secluded from the ring roads. The cars were parked near the surrounding forest at the entrance of the village. Lieutenant Riley's sight crossed with yours as he helped you get out of the truck.

He could be such a gentleman sometimes.

A handful of soldiers gathered near the vehicles - some of them wearing a KorTac patch on their shoulders, the other ones (from your unit) a Task Force 141 badge. But besides those sigils, none of them were wearing full battle gear.

There was no active fighting against the enemy at the moment. It was just a careful chase after the terrorists - following their footsteps, interviewing associates, gathering proof. Because at the end of the day, the military (or army related organization) cannot shed blood over a defamation.

But KorTac and TF 141? Quite an unusual partnership between the two groups, right?

━ Ghost, Y/C you’re goin’ with me ━ Captain Price announced, adjusting his hat as he closed the car’s doors behind him. ━ Gaz, you’ll stay here, is that clear?

Captain heard a firm ‘yes, sir’ from your teammate Kyle who was to stay at the parking spot. Meanwhile the KorTac colonel gave an order to his soldiers in German. “Such a tough language” you thought to yourself. Only two of his people went along the wood road with the rest of you.

The Colonel.

Exceptionally tall, Austrian man who served many years for his country. The one you found yourself in on the latest mission.

Each time you wanted to look at him while Colonel König was speaking, you had to chin up. And even though, a black hood with a red paint on it covered his whole face besides his cold, blue eyes. He was lowkey intimidating with his massive size, but just like your captain, the Austrian’s rough looks didn’t reflect his character. At least to you and your comrades he was quite nice.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t say the same about his teammates.

You didn’t have to walk for long as the isolated, one floor house emerged behind a hill. By the quick peek at that building and the noises coming from the inside you knew, it felt like a warm home.

As you approached the building, you heard a child’s cry.

Price knocked at the front door and soon after a man with dark bags under his eyes opened them slightly. He was peeking through the crack.

━ Jakob Hausner? ━ The Captain asked with a playful smile under his mustache, his thumbs interlocked with the gear straps over his chest.

━ Ja, wie kann ich helfen? [ger.: Yes, how can I help?]

━ Can you ask him if he speaks english? ━ John looked over his shoulder towards König, asking for a favor.

━ Yes, I speak english ━ master of the house answered with a thick accent, before colonel could translate. ━ What do you want?

He wasn’t trusting at all, well, how could he? You were all strangers at his doorsteps, two of your partners wearing scary looking masks. But it all had a purpose - they were supposed to look… intimidating, yes?

A loud wailing made their ears hurt, it was that damn baby again. Jakob sighed loudly, his shoulder collapsing as he opened the doors a little bit more.

━ We just want to talk about the company you were working for. ━ Price continued talking.

━ About them again? ━ Mr. Hausner frowned his eyebrows and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Poor man was exhausted apparently. ━ Okay, okay, ja, come in.

The man let you all inside, however König told his soldiers to have a look outside the plot - to make sure it’s safe here and you’re not being watched. Poor Jakob wasn’t even fully aware (because of his state) that he let in a group of military people inside of his home.

As soon as you crossed the hallway into the dining room with a big, wooden table, you noticed a struggling toddler in a children’s chair. The girl was crying, her face red from the tantrum.

━ I’m sorry, it’s just my daughter, she… she doesn’t want to eat her–. Lina, bitte. [ger.: Lina, please.]

Being a parent. Must be tough, huh?

Not when you were forced to babysit your siblings or cousins since you were a teenager.

━ She’s not hungry. ━ You noticed the way the little girl pushed her plate away and how she tried to climb out of the seat. Christ, that man really had to be exhausted. ━ Can I?

You took a few slow and calm steps towards the sitting child - a warm smile painted over your face. Even your boyfriend Ghost was slightly… surprised? Seeing you drop the apathetic shell, then becoming more warm and gentle towards the little girl.

━ She’s our medic ━ your Captain explained to the worried father ━ let her take the kid and we’ll have a talk. In peace.

Mr. Hausner let you take care of his unsettled daughter, so they could have a conversation about his former employers. You took the girl out of her chair and placed her over your left hip, pushing it outward.

━ Come, Lina ━ you addressed the girl by her name, even though she probably couldn’t understand what you were saying ━ let’s leave the stinky men alone, ja?

You left the dining room and entered the seemingly endless garden behind the house. Since you took that girl in your hands she already began to calm down, perhaps a woman's touch was all she needed?

“Where was your mother? Was she at work working a long shift? Did something happen to her? Did the bad men–” your thoughts seemed to take a rather pessimistic route, so you had to quickly change it.

You didn’t know much German. Well, you didn’t know any at all.

Fuck.

But at that moment you were thanking the heavens that your father watched movies about Hans Kloss or war on a regular basis. You were happy that your father was taught some phrases and somewhere in your subconsciousness he passed them to you.

You sat on the wooden bench somewhere in the garden not far from the building. Then, you placed the child on your lap and began talking to her - mostly in your mother tongue. Then you added some words in German that you knew, like:

━ Schau, schmetterling! [ger.: Look, a butterfly!]

Soon you grew more comfortable around the girl named Lina, even though there was a language barrier. Without your knowledge, your legs began to bounce her, pretending she was riding a horse.

If anyone would point that out later, you would certainly deny it. You, getting soft for a child? No, no, no.

You were so occupied with entertaining her that you didn’t even notice a looming, black figure in the corner of your eye. Watching the scene from somewhere nearby.

König was standing just next to the doors, leaving against the white plaster on the outside walls. He listened to your attempts to speak German, finding it… adorable?

Never did he meet a woman in his profession so empathetic and gentle. Especially the one who managed to catch his attention. Let’s be honest, most of them were cold blood murderers and he was a colonel - he couldn’t let himself have such a luxury of having a family.

Until now.

His imagination began to play a nasty and stupid trick on him - just because he saw you speaking German with a kid. What if it was you to take care of his children? Were your hands usually this delicate? Would you care for him as much?

The tall soldier was intrigued by you and his dreamy stare exposed him for it.

━ Don’t even think about it. ━ Ghost voice snapped him back to the reality. The British soldier emerged from the building the same way the colonel did after the conversation came to an end with Mr. Hausner.

Simon Riley wasn’t a fool. He noticed all the little peaks at his girlfriend other soldiers usually would take, she was in fact a pretty thing. So it didn’t take much to notice that the tall guy from KorTac took a liking of you. Too much liking in Ghost’s opinion.

━ Verzeihung [ger.: Excuse me] ━ König apologized, flustered slightly by obviousness of the situation. He instantly understood the reference. ━ didn’t know she was… taken.

━ Yeah ━ British lieutenant scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark irises didn’t even dare to stare at him. His eyes were on you ━ she’s very much taken.

There was a dead silence between the two of them - for a short moment, before Ghost gave you a heads up.

━ Y/C, we’re moving.

The rough and firm tone of Ghost’s voice made you snap back into reality. You were in the middle of something, right? Yet, you almost jumped on that little bench painted in floral patterns.

━ Coming, lieutenant. ━ You declared quickly, before putting the little girl over your hip again and heading inside of her home.

Ghost was a few steps ahead and so you had to pass the massive figure of König to go inside again. You pressed the child’s head into your cleavage as she was a little scared of colonel’s hood.

Well, you would be too, if you saw his cold stare in the middle of the night from under that veil, right?

━ Don’t worry, he just looks scary. He won’t bite. Isn’t that right, sir? ━ You sent him a polite smile as you tried to comfort the petrified girl. Your hand caressing her golden locks.

But he was speechless at the moment. He couldn’t form a simple sentence. A fucking grown ass man. “So fucking pathetic”, he thought to himself. Your lips twisting into a wide smile for him. It wouldn’t be easy for him to erase that sight from his memory. König would have trouble falling asleep that night, thinking of you.

A/N: ♪ Two big guys and they grab on my thighs ♪

#reader insert #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #konig #konig mw2 #konig cod #könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig x reader #konig x reader

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wintrwinchestr · 29 days ago

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strangers | part 3

summary: when nothing comes of the frantic call for help you'd made just before joel had attempted to take your life, you realize that he had been telling you the truth—nobody cares about you, and nobody is coming for you. the fear of being forgotten becomes so overwhelming, you decide to go against your better judgement in a last-ditch effort to make sure that somebody knows you're still here. what you hadn't anticipated, is that you'd be putting more than just your own life in danger by doing so.

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, talk of death/murder and blood, mommy issues, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, introduction of female original character, reader's skintone shows bruises, reader has at least shoulder-length hair, reader's hair texture can be put into ponytails, reader has pubic hair, groping, fingering, kissing, fingersucking (both reader and joel), mild blood kink, domination and control that is essentially abuse, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 12.9k

a/n: heyyy... how y'all doin... it's been a while. i am very excited to share the next part of this story, written by some miraculous feat of perseverance. if you're still here, thank you for sticking around. i love joel and babydoll so so much and they have never left my heart or my mind, even when i was taking a break from them. i thought that putting a hard stop to my hobbies while i was having a difficult time at work was a good coping mechanism, but i realized last month that i can't let them take my creativity away from me no matter how hard they try. thank you @chippedowlmug and @polaroidpascal for always yapping with me and keeping their story alive even when i didn't have it in me to write it all down. there is much more of them still to come, thank you for being here <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

part 4

You can’t sleep.

Each time the air conditioning kicks on, or the pipes let out a rattling groan, or the mattress springs creak underneath Joel’s weight, your eyes snap open again. Each time you hope to awaken to the sight of blue and red lights streaming in through the crooked blinds, and each time you’re disappointed. Your heart rate hasn’t been able to settle into any kind of steady rhythm all night, the muscle beating erratically every time you hear so much as a cricket chirp or a gust of wind outside. You could’ve sworn at one point you had heard distant footsteps crunching through the gravel parking lot, and you’d held your breath as you imagined they belonged to a police officer coming to your rescue, sent by the woman who had picked up your call for help. Any minute now the footsteps would reach your room, and you’d hear fists pounding on the door as they demanded entry.

That minute had turned into five, then ten, and then fifteen, before the sound had repeated itself, and you’d realized it was just some nocturnal critter rustling around in the trash can outside the door.

It’s been hours now since you’d made your futile little escape attempt, since you’d uttered all of about four words to the woman on the other end of the line before Joel had pounced on you like an animal, ripped the phone out of your hand, and dragged you back into his lair.

…Someone had picked up, hadn’t they? Your memory is failing you now. Maybe the line was dead, maybe you hadn’t inserted enough coins for the call to go through, maybe you had only wanted there to be somebody out there who cared, and you had just hallucinated the woman’s tinny voice in your terrified state.

What you can be sure you hadn’t hallucinated, however, is the contents of the box you wish you had never pulled out from underneath the bench seat. You can’t escape the graphic memories of the polaroids that project themselves onto the backs of your eyelids each time they dare to close, jolting you back into reality the second your consciousness begins to slip away. You can’t help but think about how Joel had made you lay perfectly still for him while he forced himself inside of you, and you taste bile in the back of your throat as you wonder if he had ever really violated any of the other girls that way, or if it was just some sick fantasy.

You’re almost certain of what the answer is, but you try to swallow it down along with the sourness in your mouth.

You think about how scared you were, how scared you are, and how scared they must have been in their final moments, knowing there was nothing they could do anymore except submit themselves to his violence and hope he would at least make it quick. Eighteen or so years’ worth of dreams and desires and ambitions dashed in a single night, snuffed out in an instant as he reduced their bodies to nothing more than something limp and pliant for him to play with. You think about Ruby, and try to blink away the sudden vision of sunken glassy eyes and blonde ringlets covered in dirt and blood, skin pale and body decaying in a forgotten patch of land off the side of the road somewhere. You hope if he had ever spared even one of them from his grotesque defilement, that it was her.

You’re crying, you realize, when you feel a hot tear pooling in the shell of your ear, and you try to suppress your shuddering sobs as the guilt begins to feel all-consuming. How come you’re still alive to feel Joel’s hot breath raise the hairs on the back of your neck, and yet there’s a fucking shoebox full of dozens and dozens of girls who’d been brutalized and violated and discarded like trash? What makes you so fucking special? Being lost and naive and stupid enough to play into his little game without knowing what the cost would be if you’d tried to back out, to say that you’d changed your mind because he was too rough and controlling and it wasn’t fun anymore, like the rest of them probably had? It isn’t fair that you get to escape their fates just because you were the only one fucked up enough to enjoy the game, at least while it had lasted.

You’re going to wake him up with all your sniffling and shivering if you don’t get yourself under control somehow. You need to breathe. You need to get some air. Feel the breeze on your face and look up at the stars and calm yourself down enough to try and get at least a couple hours of sleep tonight. Lord knows you’ll probably need them tomorrow.

Although Joel had fallen asleep with his arm locked tight around your chest, it rests across his own now, rising and falling slowly with his breathing. He seems to be in true, deep sleep, having laid perfectly still for the past couple of hours save for the bear-like snorts he lets out every once in a while. Must have really worn himself out last night, you think to yourself, the tone of the voice in your head dripping with venom.

You wait another couple of minutes for the AC unit to turn back on, and use its obnoxious metallic rattling to cover the sound of you peeling back the thin sheet and musty comforter. You do so carefully, in as slow and as delicate movements you can manage in your current state, practically placing your feet on the carpet one toe at a time before pushing yourself up to a standing position. Joel makes some kind of grumbling cough just as you finish straightening out your spine, and it startles a gasp from you. You cover your mouth quickly and turn back to face him with wide eyes, afraid that you’ll find his own darkened ones staring back at you.

They’re still closed, to your immense relief, but his mouth is hanging open now, his sharp canines catching the moonlight in a way that sends a shiver down your back. You still have another minute or so of cover from the air conditioning before the room is cloaked in sinister silence once again, so you use your last remaining seconds to sweep the floor with your bare feet, blindly feeling around in the dark for your shoes. Come on, where the fuck are they? you wonder, sure that you would’ve kicked them over by now, if they were still in the spot Joel had put them after he had stripped off your clothes and pulled you into the shower with him.

Fuck.

He locked them in the fucking truck, along with the rest of your clothes, along with all of his clothes and both of your bags full of your modest belongings. You’d been tucked into bed already, sniffling quietly into the pillow as he’d made one last trip outside in nothing but his briefs just to ensure that you wouldn’t be motivated to try something again during the night. You’d hardly be able to make it anywhere without a stitch of clothing on your back except for his threadbare t-shirt, after all, the length of it just barely enough to cover the tufts of curls that poke out from the apex of your thighs.

“Just a lil’ insurance policy. You understand, sweetheart,” Joel had whispered, slipping the key to the truck underneath his pillow before slithering into bed behind you, wrapping his arms around you and constricting you like a snake.

Fuck it. It’s been too long. You tiptoe across the few feet of space between your side of the bed and the door to the room, thankful that the AC rattles out one last dissonant groan loud enough to cover the squeak of the hinges and the click of the lock.

Free from the confines of that cage-like room at last, you shakily exhale the breath you’d been holding, and the desert air is cold enough for you to see the pale cloud of it against the onyx-colored sky. With your back pressed up against the door and your hands splayed out against the wood, you look up at the endless expanse of stars above the treeline and let out a shuddering sob, the sight both comforting and overwhelming all at once.

You feel small. You feel lost. You feel trapped. Scared. Sick. Confused. Everything. Nothing.

There’s a whole world out there, right in front of you, all around you, and it was waiting to welcome you with open arms, if you hadn’t fallen into the wrong ones first. You feel both grateful and damned to be alive, relieved that you’ve been fortunate enough to live to see another day, but knowing that each one that follows will be spent with him. In his captivity, doing his bidding, spending the rest of your life trying to decide which side of his polaroid camera is the worse one to be on.

The polaroids. You just can’t fucking get them out of your head. The only physical evidence of what happened to any of those girls, now sitting at the bottom of a gas station trash can, likely covered up with empty soda cans and fast food wrappers and grease-stained napkins by now. That black plastic bag was probably tossed into a dumpster sometime last night, ready to be loaded onto a trash truck and taken to a landfill, never to be seen again. Discarded. Forgotten.

If anything, you wish you could at least provide some kind of closure to their parents, to Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, who only gave up the search for their daughter because they had let the police convince them that their bright, beautiful, and promising child had just decided to run away that summer. You wish you could somehow make it back across the country, walk up to their home and knock on the door and be able to tell them “I know what happened to her. A man took her—a monster. He killed her. I’m sorry.”

But then, what condolence would that provide them, without a body to lay to rest? You wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for her. Joel probably doesn’t even fucking remember where she is anymore, where any of them are. He probably just picks the most unassuming, low-trafficked area he can find nearby to dump their bodies after he’s done with them, chosen as carelessly as he would the next cigarette out of his pack—a thatch of tall grass off the side of a back road, a pile of dry-rotted debris where a barn once stood, an algae-covered pond behind a long-abandoned farmhouse. Bleak, filthy, forgettable places, where nobody would ever be able to find them.

Another sob wracks your body, and you muffle the sound with your hand as you slide down the door, your knees giving out from underneath you as you collapse onto the sidewalk.

Nobody knows where you are, or what happened to you, and nobody fucking cares. Not the police, not your own mother. You’ll be forgotten just like the rest of them if you haven’t been already, whether you make it out of this alive or not.

You can’t bear the thought. You thought you could, when you had first left home and started following Ruby’s trail all that time ago. It had seemed inspiring at the time, the idea of leaving that suffocating little town in search of somewhere else to plant your roots and let yourself bloom. But now… you have to make sure that someone knows the truth. Whether they care about you enough to come to your rescue or not, you need at least one person out there to know that you didn’t just vanish into the wind. That you’re still alive. That you’re still out there. That you haven’t given up yet.

You close your eyes for a moment, taking a few steadying breaths as the cool night breeze dries your tears and the thin veil of sweat that your anxious spiral had produced. When you open them again, your gaze lands on the payphone across the parking lot, and you heave a despondent sigh as you study a moth fluttering dizzily around the bulb that illuminates the little booth. The phone is even more useless to you now than it was the first time, without access to the handful of quarters that are still locked inside Joel’s truck. With that option eliminated, you push yourself up to your feet, and feel the tiny muscles in your toes spasm with the desire to run. You try to rewind your memory several hours back, searching for even a glimpse of something that might tell you where the fuck you are, which direction to head in—had you passed any street signs, local schools, city halls, anything? You must’ve been too terrified to pay any attention to your surroundings as Joel drove from the gas station to the motel, devoting all of your focus to planning your failed getaway. Joel was probably counting on that, and had intentionally picked this drab little motel in the middle of fucking nowhere in order to imprison you here.

You finally tear your eyes away from that hopeless, trapped little moth, instead turning your head toward the motel office all the way down at the end of the row of rooms. There’s a dim light on inside, but no other sign of a person working there. Considering the isolated nature of this bygone stretch of highway, the motel might not even get enough business to justify paying a person to man the front desk all night. You chew on your lip, debating if it’s even worth a shot just to take a look around and see if you can find anything of use in there.

Your feet are stepping one in front of the other before you can stop them, leading you toward the door with “OFFICE” painted on the glass window in bold red letters. Goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of your legs as you walk, and you almost hope that there isn’t anybody in there after all, just to spare yourself the embarrassment of having to talk to some innocent bystander while you grasp desperately at the bottom hem of your shirt and your remaining shreds of dignity. You hate how well Joel’s little “insurance policy” is working exactly the way he wanted it to.

The doorknob is cold against your fingertips, and your breath hitches in surprise when you’re able to turn it with no resistance. You slip inside the office and close the door behind you quietly, taking a beat to survey the wood-paneled room—there’s a corkboard of room keys with only one empty hook, a clock on the wall that makes you jump with each startling tick, and a coffee maker in the corner covered in a thin layer of dust, illuminated by the slices of white moonlight coming in through the blinds. It’s all too still, too untouched, everything about the room only emphasizing how absolutely alone you are here. And yet, you can’t shake the eerie feeling of a presence, of eyes on you, watching you and waiting to jump out from the shadows and drag you back to your keeper.

Just find what you came in here to look for and get the fuck out, you scold yourself, stepping behind the front desk and opening each drawer one by one as you search for the handful of items on your mental checklist—a pen, paper, an envelope, and a stamp.

It’s not your brightest idea, attempting to send a letter back home to your mother. But it’s better than doing nothing, just disappearing into the forest and letting the monster that lurks there kick dirt over your trail of breadcrumbs. Even if just one remains, it will be enough to prove that you were ever there at all.

The pen and paper were easiest to find, sitting right on top of the desk in plain sight. You’d torn off a sheet of the motel’s personalized notepad, the place’s name and address printed neatly across the top. If your mother does find it in her heart to come looking for you, at least she’ll know where to start.

The envelope and stamp are proving more difficult to locate, and each deafening tick of the clock above your head taunts you with its reminder of how much time you’ve been in here, out of bed, away from Joel. Your searching becomes a little more frantic, less gentle moving of objects out of the way and more haphazardly swiping them around the drawers in your fruitless scavenging.

“Um… hi there—” comes a voice from behind you, nearly startling a scream from your throat as you whirl around. You hit your hip on the open drawer and wince, and the owner of the voice puts her hands out in front of her, as if she had just spooked a small dog. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…” She flits her eyes up and down your minimally clad form as she apologizes, and you self consciously yank your shirt down over your thighs. “Are you okay? Can I help you with something?”

She’s young, pretty, maybe a few years older than you, with doe-like green eyes and a pale face dappled with caramel-colored freckles.

“I-I was just, um… looking for an envelope? A-and a stamp, if you have any,” you confess shakily, your heart pounding and cheeks burning as you fidget nervously with the hem of your shirt. You glance over the girl’s shoulder and see a door you hadn’t noticed before, now open. There’s a drab-colored couch and a small flickering TV inside, playing at a volume low enough that you hadn’t heard it at all through the closed door. She must spend most of her night shift in there, watching reruns of old movies and munching on stovetop popcorn to stay alert just in case some poor soul comes stumbling into the office in need of her assistance. You feel a small pang of jealousy in your stomach as you imagine what a relaxed, carefree night she must have been having, while you were fighting for your life under the very same roof.

“Oh, sure! They’re just, um… Excuse me—” she says meekly as she steps in your direction. You scurry out of her way, swiping the pen and paper from the top of the desk as you do. She takes your place to crouch down and tug open the very bottom drawer in the stack you had been searching through, and rifles around for just a moment before she finds what she’s looking for. She hands the items off to you as she rises back to her full height, just a couple of inches above your own. “Here you are. Is that all you need?”

Yes. No. Not even fucking close.

You turn over the stationery in your hands, running your thumbs across the smooth surface of the envelope as you debate whether or not you should ask her for what you really need—help.

But the girl has so much life in her eyes, so much color in her cheeks that you can see even in the office’s low lighting, that you’d never be able to forgive yourself if you decide to involve her in this. Her face would be printed on the side of a milk carton the second you open your mouth.

“Mhm, just this stuff. Thank you.” You do your best to make it sound like the truth.

“...Are you sure?” She presses, gesturing to either side of her neck, her auburn eyebrows peaked with concern.

Shit.

In your effort to make sure your bottom half stayed covered, you had forgotten about the dark marks Joel had created around your throat just a handful of hours earlier. They must be pretty noticeable already, if this girl—Chrissy, her name tag reads—is able to spot them just by the light of one yellow bulb and a few slats of moonlight.

You nod, fighting the whimper that threatens to escape when you bring one hand up to press into your bruises, the other holding your letter-writing supplies in front of your lap.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” you lie, though you can tell she doesn’t believe you. You wouldn’t believe you, either. But you’re thankful that she decides to let it go, anyway.

Chrissy nods, too. “So… you’re trying to mail a letter, then? We can’t really send it from here, but there’s a few mailboxes in town, if you’re gonna be sticking around for a little bit.”

“Oh, um… I’m not sure. Maybe,” you reply, offering a small smile as you shift your weight awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Chrissy presses her lips together, giving you another quiet nod along with one last sympathetic glance at your disheveled form. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else? I might have a pair of sweatpants with me if you—”

“No, no, it’s okay. I have to… he’s gonna, um…” You fumble, gesturing back to the room at the end of the row while you scramble for some kind of excuse that doesn’t give too much of your situation away. “I’m just going back to bed anyway, so… I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

A few beats of silence linger between you before you speak up again. “Could I write it in here, though? Just like… at the desk? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

She looks at you like you’re a kicked puppy as she replies, “Of course you can. I’ll be back there, if you decide you do want the change of clothes after all. If you could just close the door on your way out, and… be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” you half-whisper, and you can’t help the way your bottom lip trembles when Chrissy retreats back into that cozy little room, leaving the door cracked open just enough for the voices from her movie to keep you company while you write. You glance up at the clock once before you begin, promising to allow yourself no more than five minutes to say what you need to say, seal it away in the envelope, and sneak back into bed without Joel ever noticing you were gone.

You used to pride yourself on your neat handwriting, when you were still in school and a thing as trivial as that actually mattered. But you haven’t had to write anything by hand in so long now that you hardly recognize the disconnected capital “T”s and chaotically pointed “M”s as you scribble them down. The words are still mostly legible, though, even the ones that were accidentally blurred by stray tears you couldn’t wipe away in time before they hit the page.

You read over the letter once as the clock counts out your last remaining seconds, and decide it’s good enough to be slipped inside the envelope and secured with a swipe of your saliva. Your stomach flips when you go to write your home address on the front, fearing that you’ve forgotten it in all the time that Joel has spent scrubbing you clean of who you were before you met him. But when you close your eyes, you hear the song your father used to sing to you to help you remember it when you were little, in case you ever got lost and needed to tell someone where you came from. It had never really come in handy, until now.

With your sufficiently addressed and stamped envelope in hand, you quietly exit the office and pad your way back down the sidewalk to the room where your captor lies waiting. You press your ear to the door before entering, and wait until you hear the telltale groan of the air conditioning kicking back on. When the mechanical sound reaches its full volume, you slip back through the door and shut it behind you all in one swift, delicate movement. You slink over to your side of the bed like a cat, and tuck the envelope underneath the mattress as you gently crawl back underneath the covers, next to Joel’s still-sleeping form, in the exact same position you had left him in. The slight disruption of your weight depressing the mattress prompts him to roll over in his unconscious state, and his skin is scorching against your own as he wraps you up in his arms again, pulling you tight against his chest. He gives a slow buck of his hips against your backside and releases a quiet growl into your hair that makes you shiver despite the heat he radiates.

You can’t fight the pull of your heavy eyelids for much longer, the wave of adrenaline you had been riding all night finally coming to a crest and crashing against you all at once. Telling your story, getting the words down on paper, having some kind of half-assed plan to make sure you don’t just disappear into the ether, seems to have given you more peace of mind than expected, at least in your delirious, traumatized, and sleep-deprived condition. For now, you’re still treading water, still holding your head above the surface of the deep dark unknown that awaits, and it’s enough for your exhausted mind to finally show you a few hours worth of mercy.

You will survive this, you won’t disappear, even if you have to take it one excruciating day at a time.

—

The first day of the rest of your life begins that hazy morning after, when Joel finally rouses around ten o’clock from what seems to have been a relatively deep slumber. He tightens his grip around your upper body as he purrs out a sleepy groan, wetly kissing under your ear before mumbling, “Mornin’ babydoll.” Your body seems to have not caught up with reality just yet, evident in the way your cunt still flutters involuntarily at the sound of his gravelly morning voice and the warm slide of his tongue. You curse yourself for the instinctual reaction, wishing you could just reset all of the ways that your nerves have been trained to react to his touch over the past few months.

“Morning, Joel,” you whisper, and you can feel his half-hard length pressing into your back.

“You sleep okay, sweetheart?”

Your eyes go a little wide at his question, and you’re grateful that you’re still facing away from him. Is this a test? You can’t be sure anymore. But if he had ever realized you were gone during the night, surely he wouldn’t wait until the next morning to do something about it… right?

You nod. “Mhm, fine.” Your voice cracks a little, but Joel doesn’t seem to notice.

“Good, tha’s good…” he snakes a hand between your legs, finding its way underneath your��his—oversized shirt to lightly prod at your bare little hole. “And how’s she doin’, hm? Was dreamin’ about her all night, how fuckin’ good ‘n tight she was for me… She feelin’ sore at all this mornin’, babydoll?”

“A little, yeah.” His touch makes you shudder, but you know better than to try and reject it.

Joel tuts, circling the roughened pad of his finger over your clit. “Poor thing… ‘M sorry about that, baby. Jus’ got a lil’ carried away last night, tha’s all. You forgive me, don’t you, sweetheart? You understand?”

You hesitate, swallowing down the bitter taste of the lie you’re about to tell. “Yes, it’s… it’s okay, Joel.”

“Mmm, just the sweetest lil’ girl, ain’t you?” Joel says, swiping two of his fingers through your folds to collect some of your involuntary slick. He pulls his hand out from under the covers and sucks one of the damp digits into his mouth, releasing a pleasured groan. Joel gives another slow grind into your ass before bringing his hand in front of your face, pushing the other still-wet finger between your lips and forcing you to taste yourself. “See how sweet she is for me, baby? Think she forgives me too, don’t she?”

You nod around his finger, humming in pretend agreement.

“Perfect… so perfect for me, my lil’ doll,” Joel muses, sliding his finger back and forth across your tongue and teasing the back of your throat with each intrusive thrust. You fight to suppress your gag reflex until he eventually removes his finger from your mouth, wiping the dampness off on your shirt. “C’mere, pretty girl. Gimme a kiss,” he grumbles, gripping a paw onto your shoulder and pulling backwards, using the leverage to get you to roll onto your other side to face him.

The warm morning light coming in from the window illuminates the back of his head, highlighting the way his mussed salt and pepper locks stick up every which way. This is the first time you’re getting a good look at him since you had first spotted his disturbing keepsake box peeking out from underneath the bench seat, since he had snapped at you for trying to grab it, since you had still thought that would be the worst thing he’d ever do to you. It’s almost comical, in a sinister sort of way, how harmless Joel looks like this, with his scarred nose and stubbled cheeks still rosy from sleep.

You hadn’t anticipated how complicated it would be to still have to feign intimacy with him, how dizzying it already feels to stand on the sidelines in your own mind and watch your desire wrestle with your disgust. Joel presses his lips against your own, and you do your best not to grimace as you kiss him back. He still feels the same, still tastes the same, like black coffee and cigarettes and spearmint. But he isn’t the same.

Joel parts your teeth with his tongue as he deepens the kiss, hungrily lapping into your mouth as you let him take what he wants, only pulling away from him once he breaks the connection first. He brushes some of your hair away from your face when he does, admiring your slightly swollen lips as he rubs his calloused thumbs across your cheeks.

“Whaddya say we just have ourselves a nice afternoon together, hm? Think there might be a lil’ town nearby, could get us somethin’ to eat, maybe even do some shoppin’, dependin’ on what’s there.”

There’s a few mailboxes in town, if you’re gonna be sticking around for a little bit, you hear Chrissy’s voice repeat what she had told you last night, and feel an exhilarated pang in your chest when you remember the envelope you have hidden beneath you.

You try not to answer too eagerly, taking a beat before you respond with a quiet “Really?” “Yeah, babydoll. Why, you don’t wanna?”

“No! No, I—that sounds good. I just didn’t think… I thought you’d wanna get going again, or something. After… you know.” You bring your hand up to touch the sore sides of your neck instinctually, unable to bring yourself to say it, to think about it for longer than a couple of seconds.

“Like I said, sweetheart. We’ll just leave your hair down today, nobody’ll see ‘em,” Joel says casually.

It’s unsettling, the evenness in Joel’s tone as he suggests having a normal day together, attempting to just move on as if the contusions you’re discussing aren’t a direct result of his abuse. You’ve only just woken up, and you’re already feeling the whiplash from the softness of his words in comparison to the degradation he was spitting at you last night. You wonder how much of it he even remembers, if he had really just let some entirely separate entity inside of him get “carried away”, or if it was all Joel. He couldn’t have been that good at hiding his true self from you the entire time you’ve known him, could he? What does it say about you if the signs had been there all along, and you’d either chosen to ignore them, or missed them completely? How can you ever be sure now which Joel you’re in the company of at any given time?

“Okay,” you agree, putting on a small smile that he’s quick to return.

“Alright, we’ll get to it, then. Jus’ stay put, sweetheart, lemme bring our stuff back inside, find you somethin’ to wear.” Joel plants a whiskery kiss on your hairline before tossing the sheets aside and rising to his towering height, retrieving the key to the truck from underneath his pillow in the process. You can’t help the way your stomach flips as you watch him lumber towards the door, squeezing your thighs together under the covers at the sight of his visible morning wood bobbing in his briefs with each heavy step. You roll back onto your other side as soon as he steps over the threshold, letting the corners of your mouth drop as you curse yourself again. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? A constant battle between wanting to forget and feeling disgusted with yourself for even trying to? There has to be some way to navigate this without completely fucking loathing yourself for just trying to stay alive.

Joel returns to the room a few minutes later with his arms and hands full of the clothing he’s chosen for both of you. He drops his boots onto the carpet with a heavy thud, but sets your own shoes down next to them with more care. He tosses a few articles of his own things onto his side of the bed before coming around to yours, holding out his free hand for you to take. “Up you go, babydoll, c’mon,” he commands. You grab hold of his steady hand, using it for support as you slide out from underneath the covers and push yourself off the mattress, the springs creaking in protest.

Joel entwines his thick fingers in yours as he leads you toward the small bathroom. You loosen your grip to shut the door behind you, expecting him to drop his handhold to allow you some privacy, but his grasp only tightens. You inhale sharply at the dull pain caused by his fingertips digging into the back of your hand, and turn to face him with panicked eyes. The stern expression you’re met with makes your heart rate quicken, terrified that you’ve already somehow found a way to upset him again.

“I just need to use the bathroom first, I’ll try to be quick,” you insist, still attempting to untangle your fingers from his.

“Not with the door closed you don’t.”

“...W-why?” You question timidly.

Joel jerks his head toward the shower, his gaze still trained on you. “That lil’ window up there. Just gotta make sure you ain’t gonna try anythin’, tha‘s all.”

You glance over to the tiny window he’s referring to, the kind that doesn’t even open all the way, just cracks open enough to let the steam out.

“But… I couldn’t even fit through there. And I… I learned my lesson, Joel, I promise—”

“Shh, don’t gotta get all worked up, ‘s alright, sweetheart. Jus’ do what I ask, okay?” Joel finally drops your hand in favor of cradling the side of your neck, brushing his thumb across the tender cartilage at the front of it. “You understand, don’t you, baby? ‘S just a precaution.”

Joel speaks to you so gently, with such adoration in his tone and in his expression, even with the threatening placement of his hand on your throat. The blatant display of manipulation makes you dizzy. You drop your gaze from his face to the bathroom floor, and try to use the cool sensation of the tile against your bare feet to ground yourself.

“Are you gonna watch me while I… go?” You ask meekly, your cheeks warming with embarrassment.

“No, no, sweet girl,” Joel placates, using a hooked finger to lift your head back up. “I’ll wait outside for you. Jus’ leave the door ‘bout halfway open, ‘s all I’m askin’. Besides, ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before, hm?” He pinches at your chin with a teasing smile, continuing to act as if everything he’s asking of you is completely ordinary.

“Yeah, but…” You start, but Joel huffs in warning.

You concede with a sighed “Okay,” and he finally leaves you to conduct your business. You’re thankful that he at least isn’t watching you, instead just leaning his broad back against the doorframe outside the bathroom with his arms crossed. Although, you think he might’ve taken a peek when you had first sat down, in the brief moment when your oversized t-shirt was rucked up to your tummy. You go through the motions as quickly as possible so as not to prolong your mortification, practically flushing and stepping over to the sink all in one hurried movement. Joel slides himself behind you as you’re washing your hands, setting your clothing down on the back of the toilet before placing his hands on your hips. His hard length is slotted against your backside, and you do your best to ignore him as you dry your hands with the bleach-stained motel towel. He only continues to use his weight to press you harder against the edge of the sink, undeterred by your efforts, and you wince a little at the pain that begins to pulse under your ribcage.

“Lemme tell you how this is gonna be from now on, okay babydoll? Look at me,” Joel orders, and you meet his darkened eyes in the mirror where he towers above you as he continues, “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ for yourself or by yourself ever again, ‘s that clear? Nothin’. Know we had some of that before our lil’... incident… and you liked that, didn’t you, baby? Liked me takin’ care of you like that?”

You nod, because it’s true.

“You’re nothin’ but a lil’ doll to me from now on. Gonna let me dress you this mornin’, do your hair up, brush your teeth, everythin’... And when we go out today, you ain’t gonna talk to anybody, ain’t even gonna look at anybody, you understand? Nobody except for me. I’m all you got for the rest of your life. And that’s what we always wanted, ain’t it? Just each other…” He says the last part almost wistfully, letting go of your waist with one hand in favor of twisting a lock of your hair around one of his roughened fingers. “You’ll come to like livin’ like this, babydoll. Got no other choice, do you?”

You swallow, biting your lip to stave off burning tears that you know will only upset him if you let them spill.

“Do you?” Joel repeats.

“N-no, I don’t,” you reply, and he hums in satisfaction before rewarding you with a wet kiss to your temple that makes your skin crawl.

“Yeah, tha‘s right… Turn around now, arms up for me, sweetheart.” Joel steps back from the sink to allow you room to obey his command, and you don’t hesitate to do so. He carefully lifts his t-shirt over your head before tossing it to the floor, and you shiver as the breeze blowing in from that one cracked window wraps itself around your naked form. Joel tuts when you wrap your arms over your pebbled nipples on instinct, gently scolding, “Nuh uh, don’t cover up what’s mine. Lemme look at ya.” He uses a light touch to guide your limbs down to your sides, whistling low as his predatory eyes roam around your trembling body, spending a few extra moments on your exposed chest. “Most gorgeous lil’ thing in the whole world… Would jus’ parade you around with me all bare like this if I could, show y’ off to everybody. Bet you’d like that, huh babydoll?” He taunts, pinching at one of your hardened buds.

“Y-yeah, I would,” you appease quietly, but he doesn’t seem to pay your unenthusiastic response any mind, too preoccupied with shimmying a new pair of panties up your legs. He takes a little too much extra care in settling them around the creases of your thighs, and huffs to himself when he notices the way your little hole squeezes around nothing at the sensation of his fingertips sliding underneath the elastic, just barely teasing your folds. Joel has you turn around to face the mirror again so he can clip your bra behind your back, and a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite yourself when he zips on the pretty blue dress he picked out for you. You like how it compliments your eyes, even with how tired they look.

Just like Joel had told you he would, he doesn’t allow you to do a single thing for yourself as he completes the rest of your morning routine, holding your chin securely in the dip between his thumb and forefinger as he brushes your teeth and tips a glass of water into your mouth for you to rinse out the minty paste with. He cradles the base of your skull with one hand, using the other to scrub the sleep from your eyes and the oils from your cheeks with a damp washcloth. Joel gets to work on your hair next, pulling the top half of it into two small ponytails and tying each of them off neatly with ivory-colored ribbons. You’re surprised at the delicate movements his hands are capable of despite their size, despite the damage they’ve caused. He’s clearly had some practice with this, but you try not to think about it too hard.

Once Joel deems his doll pretty and presentable, he leads you out of the bathroom and has you sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before you with some protest from his aching joints. He slips a pair of lace-trimmed socks over your feet, one at a time, followed by the same canvas sneakers you were wearing when you had first met him. The sight of them brings you a little comfort, somehow, the discolored laces and smudged rubber soles making up just about the only familiar things you have in your possession anymore. Nearly everything you own, everything about you, has been tainted by Joel in some way now. You should’ve just taken off in the other direction when he’d pulled over his truck, left nothing but a cloud of dust in your wake and never even have given him the chance to ask you in that stupid disarming Southern twang of his if you needed a ride, if you were lost, if you had family or a boyfriend who cared about you enough to come looking for you. You’d advertised yourself in big bold lettering that you were the perfect fucking victim, practically wrapping the rope around your white woolen neck yourself so he could lead you to slaughter. This is what you deserve, stupid lamb that you are. Look at you now.

Joel instructs you to stay perched on the bed while he completes his own morning regimen, and you hang your head low as you rest your hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your fingernails. They’re practically raw now, but you can’t stop even though you should, even though it hurts, even though you’ve made yourself bleed. It had always been a nervous habit of yours, and you hadn’t noticed until you started up again last night that this was probably the nicest your nail beds had looked in years. You’d felt so comforted, so safe with Joel that you hadn’t had a reason to continue the self-destructive behavior, until all those fluttery feelings were ripped out from under you in a second. You’d been biting and tearing at your skin all night in addition to the many other things you’d been doing instead of sleeping, the habit having returned with a force as you’d used the pain to… what? To make up for the lack of blood you’d shed, to apologize to the ghosts of Anna and Elizabeth and Ruby and ask them please not to haunt you, you’re sorry, you’re sorry, you’re sorry. See? He’d made you bleed, too.

You’ve been attempting to balance your attention between your hands and the bathroom, waiting for an opportunity to arise where Joel is distracted enough for you to retrieve the envelope from its hiding place without him seeing. You keep your chin close to your chest as you observe his movements, trying not to make it too obvious that you’re watching him. After a few minutes, he finally bows his head into the sink to splash some water onto his skin, and you quickly reach behind you to swipe the letter and shove it underneath the waistband of your panties. Joel still hasn’t lifted his head back up by the time you’ve got it situated, and the corner of your mouth twitches in satisfaction. For a plan that you’re basically just making up as you go along, it’s going better than you expected.

You return to your preoccupation with your hands as you wait for Joel to finish up, and you remain hunched over yourself even as he flicks off the bathroom light and stalks over to where you’re now sucking the taste of bitter iron from one of your fingers. He startles you out of your focused state when he asks, “What’re you doin’, babydoll?”

You lift your head up, releasing the smarted skin from your mouth as you hold out your hand to examine the injury. Both of you watch a little crimson pearl begin to swell in the groove where your nail disappears into the skin. “Oh…” Joel sighs, grabbing your hand gently and raising it closer to his face, turning it this way and that to admire how your blood catches the light. You swear you can see his pupils dilate before he sucks your finger into his own mouth, swirling his tongue around your skin as he savors the metallic tang mixed with the remnants of your saliva. You feel the sharp edge of his teeth graze the pad of your finger, and your breath catches as you fear he might just bite the thing clean off from the last knuckle down. He doesn’t, of course, just lets his eyelids quiver and his cock twitch before releasing the digit from his mouth and rumbling out a quiet growl. You can’t help the somewhat sickened expression that overtakes your features as you watch Joel’s perverted little display, but work to fix it into something more neutral as he opens his eyes again.

“Pretty sure I got some bandaids in the truck, lemme get dressed ‘n then we’ll hit the road, hm?” he says, in a tone too casual to belong to someone who’d just had a near orgasmic reaction to tasting your blood. You suppose this is just another consequence of your survival—having to endure Joel’s unconcealed freakish tendencies now that he knows you’re not a flight risk anymore.

Joel tugs on his standard uniform—his thick canvas jacket layered overtop a simple undershirt and earth-toned flannel, paired with tattered jeans and his sturdy leather work boots. You allow him to help you to your feet as he leads you out to the truck, his thick fingers laced tightly through the ones of your non-bloodied hand. You have to squint at how bright the late morning sky is, your eyes aching as they adjust from the dim lighting of the motel room.

“Hey, morning!” Comes a cheery voice from down the row. You turn your head in the direction of the sound, and put your hand up to shield your eyes from the sun in an effort to get a better view of the person it came from. When your gaze finally focuses, you’re able to make out a feminine figure with auburn hair and alabaster skin, her slender arm waving at you in greeting—Chrissy.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You dip behind Joel, attempting to hide yourself from her view. He puts a protective hand across your body, and takes the lead in responding to her. “...Mornin’. Can we help you with somethin’?”

Her footsteps pause on the pavement, and there’s a beat before she says anything else, likely not expecting Joel’s less-than-friendly response to her sunny demeanor. “...No. Well, I just wanted to say ‘hi’, check in on you—Both of you,” she corrects herself quickly. You’re staring straight down at the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact just like Joel had demanded of you. But you can still see her out of the corner of your vision, attempting to lean around Joel’s large form to get a better look at you. You feel like your heart is about to burst out of your fucking ribcage as Joel turns his head toward where you’re cowering behind his arm, then slowly back to Chrissy.

“We’re fine,” he says plainly.

The silence that follows feels like it lasts an eternity. You hate how weak you must look in front of her, practically shaking where you stand like a newborn fawn while you seek the protection of this much older man whose hands, Chrissy must notice, are large enough to have created the marks on your neck that she had pointed out last night. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, to figure out the reason—the person—behind your flighty, nervous, and fidgety behavior in the office. Chrissy takes a few steps backwards, away from this strange couple standing before her, one she realizes is in her best interest not to engage further with.

Her voice comes out noticeably more unsteady now than it did when she had first approached you. “W-well, I just like to say ‘hi’ to guests on my way out if I see them. So… ‘hi’, and, um… if you need anything, someone else will be here soon to cover the office.” She rushes through the latter part of her sentence, like she just wants to spit all the words out as quickly as possible so that the interaction can be over with. You can’t see his face, but you suspect Joel is giving her some kind of hooded-eyed look that’s making her stumble over her words. “Have a good day, you two. Be careful,” she adds before she departs, and you know that those last two words were meant for you.

Joel watches her as she disappears around the corner of the building, only lowering his arm once she’s completely out of sight. You don’t look up until the sounds of her footsteps dissipate, until Joel’s arm is on your lower back as he ushers you into the truck.

“Get in, baby,” he commands, opening the door for you and helping you up into the passenger side of the bench seat. He reaches across your body to buckle your seatbelt for you before you can even lift your hand to do it yourself.

Once you’re situated to his liking, Joel closes your door and makes his way over to the driver’s seat, climbing inside and igniting the rumbling engine. He roots around in the truck’s center console, tossing aside cigarette butts and gum wrappers and loose change, eventually coming up with a single bandaid. Its paper sleeve looks crumpled and neglected, and you suppose it’s because he’s never really had a use for it until now. There isn’t much of a point in trying to bandage the type of wounds he typically inflicts, anyway, the damage already having been done.

“Gimme your hand, darlin’, hold it still for me.” Joel tears open the wrapper with his calloused thumbs and flicks away the little paper tabs from the fabric’s sticky surface, wrapping the bandaid around your finger tenderly. It would be a sweet moment, if it weren’t for the way he adjusts himself upon seeing the deep red droplet bloom on the other side of the little cotton pad. You make a mental note to work on finding a different self-soothing mechanism, lest you want to wake up in the middle of the night with his knife at your neck and his cock in his hand, deciding that you weren’t worth keeping around after all, that he just had to know if you really are just as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside, to know if the rest of your volume tastes as sweet as the small sample he’d already taken.

You sit on your hands the entire ride into town.

—

The drive was mostly silent, but actually kind of pleasant, finally giving you a real opportunity to take in the vast surroundings of… wherever you are, New Mexico. Your hands had gotten uncomfortably warm where they were squished under the bare skin of your legs for the entire half-hour or so drive, but you didn’t dare remove them. You’d have had nowhere else to put them anyway, not with the way Joel’s large paw was clamped onto your upper thigh, his pinky finger slipping underneath the hem of your dress and tracing the edge of your panties. You were grateful you’d had enough forethought to slip the envelope into the right side of your underwear, predicting that he’d get handsy like this in the truck. You’d just kept your body perfectly rigid with your head turned away from him, and tried not to descend into madness thinking about what he had made of your interaction with Chrissy earlier, if he suspected anything, if he knew you were hiding something, if he suddenly developed x-ray vision overnight and knew exactly what you were concealing under your dress.

Relief washed over your nervous system as you’d observed jagged rockwork and ochre-colored scrub brush gradually turn into modest Pueblo-style homes and businesses, glad to have finally been granted an opportunity to escape the motel after your twelve hours of terror. The steadily approaching signs of civilization had served as a reminder that the world does actually have other people in it besides you and Joel, despite what he’s been attempting to convince you of.

The town had become more populated the further the truck had chugged along down the main street, with a few friendly-looking people walking their dogs and carrying paper grocery bags as they strolled along the storefronts. You had even found yourself staring at a group of girls around your age sipping their coffees together on a bench, giggling and gossiping and making you wish you had problems as superficial as theirs. They reminded you of the type of girl Ruby was, bright-eyed and carefree and beautiful, and you’d tried to swallow down the bitter resentment that had begun to simmer in the pit of your stomach. Joel hadn’t even seemed to notice the girls as the truck passed them by, and you weren’t sure if his disinterest should make you feel satisfied or hopeless. Yesterday, you would’ve told yourself that you’re the love of his life, of course he wouldn’t dare have eyes for anyone but you, he’ll never leave your side for the rest of his life. But the sentiment takes on a much different connotation today, feeling more like a life sentence than a daydream.

You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the truck had finally rolled to a stop outside of a quaint little restaurant, its terracotta awning decorated in twinkling lights. The sign on the facade read The Coyote Café, and had a little silhouette of the namesake animal painted next to the words. You could see through the turquoise-trimmed windows that there were already a handful of other patrons inside enjoying their meals, and it made you feel a little safer, knowing that Joel would be more motivated to put his mask back on in front of so many pairs of eyes. In a town this small, the two of you probably stick out like a sore thumb enough as it is, the café seeming like the kind of place where the waitresses know the regulars by name. You were eager to finally be able to drop your defenses, at least for a little while.

Joel had chosen a table all the way in the back corner of the place, furthest from the door, and had insisted on the both of you sharing the same side of the booth. Although you could feel a few stares on you, you’d remained steadfast in your obedience of the rules he had laid out for you this morning, and kept your head down while he placed your orders with the waitress—a plate of enchiladas and a beer for him, and a cheese quesadilla with a glass of water for you. You probably would’ve been able to eat more, but you suspected that his choice of meal for you was deliberate, so as not to provide you with too much energy that you might use to make another break for it. It had reminded you of the way he had convinced you to take your coffee decaf at Moody’s that night, all of it seeming so fucking obvious now, in hindsight.

“You know somethin’, babydoll?” Joel suddenly asks through a mouthful of beans and rice. “Think I saw a lil’ consignment shop just down the way. Whaddya say we head on over there next, let you pick out somethin’ pretty for yourself since you been so good today, hm?”

You hadn’t exchanged many words as you’d been eating, other than the occasional semi-awkward comment about how nice the weather is or how good your meals are. Ordinarily, you’d be making up stories about the interesting-looking strangers sitting at the counter, or quizzing each other on the country songs playing over the radio, or debating whether the color of his flannel was really green or brown. You’d sometimes hang out at diners so late into the evening that the waitstaff would have to kick you out, and you’d be apologetic as you made your way back out to the truck, hardly able to believe how much time you’d lost track of while you were flicking wadded up straw wrappers at each other or taste testing each other’s desserts. You mourn the version of Joel in those memories as you push around the crumbs on your plate, quietly responding to him with, “Really? You’d let me?”

“‘Course I would, sweet girl.” He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin before lowering his voice, leaning down closer to your ear. “Long as you let me take it off of ya later tonight.”

“Let me.” As if you have any other choice.

Joel chuckles at his own crude comment as he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you flush to his side. He finishes the rest of his meal with one hand while he rakes the other along your upper arm, occasionally sliding a finger underneath your bra strap and snapping it against your skin. You’re only able to let your posture relax for just a moment when the waitress brings around the check, and he finally removes his scalding hand in order to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. He slaps a few crumpled bills onto the table, and then his thick fingers are forcing themselves in between your own smaller ones as he pulls you up from the booth and leads you out of the café. You spare a glance at the motherly-looking waitress on your way out, and you exchange sympathetic looks with each other behind Joel’s back. You wish she didn’t look so sorry for you, like you’re a wounded animal being dragged around by the hunter who shot an arrow through your heart. But isn’t that what you are?

Your feet stop dead in their tracks when you step down onto the sidewalk outside the cafe, your brain too enamored with the landscape of the surrounding valley to tell them to keep moving. The wide open sky and limestone hills dappled with towering evergreens almost look like a painting, the way the mountains turn paler shades of blue-green as they extend further into the distance. It’s so unlike the flat, beige midwestern states where you and Joel had begun your journey together, it almost takes your breath away.

“You just gonna stare up at the sky all day, or d’you wanna get to shoppin’, hm?” Joel says, startling you from your state of wonder.

“Oh, no, we can go. I’m sorry,” you submit, hurrying to Joel’s side. He makes an enamored little hum and kisses the top of your head before continuing to pull you along the storefronts. You keep your head down, counting the cracks in the pavement as you work to keep up with his long strides.

“See that buildin’ down there, the one with the pink siding? Tha’s the lil’ clothin’ store I was talkin’ about.” You flick your eyes upward to where Joel is pointing a lazy finger, immediately spying the technicolor little shop he’s referring to. The unusual choice in paint color is certainly eye catching, but what you’re really drawn to is the dark blue metal receptacle standing on the sidewalk just in front of it—a mailbox, just like Chrissy told you there would be.

This is it. This is your chance. When you get up to the mailbox, you’ll improvise a way to direct Joel’s attention elsewhere, and use the opportunity to slip the envelope from under your dress and deposit it into the box without him noticing. You’ll have to move quickly, precisely, quietly, or it’s all over.

You should start tugging it loose now, so that it’ll be halfway in your hand already by the time you reach the store. You pat your hand against your upper thigh, expecting to feel the paper crinkling against your skin.

Except, you don’t. You can’t feel it. It isn’t there anymore.

You feel panic start to bloom in your chest, but try your best to keep your cool. The mailbox is only a few paces away now, and you’ll have nothing to deposit into the slot, because your chance at preventing yourself from being completely forgotten by the one person in your life who might actually care, is gone. Vanished.

Where the fuck is it? Had it fallen out when you were exiting the truck? Is it laying on the floor of the cab for Joel to discover when he helps you back into your seat later? Where could it possibly have—

“Hey, excuse me! Mister?” A young-sounding voice—male, unfamiliar— shouts from behind you, followed by the sound of jogging footsteps. Joel turns around, your hand still held securely in his own. Your feet stay planted exactly where they are, your eyes unblinking and locked onto the mailbox, just barely out of reach. “Did one of you drop this? Found it on the floor by your table when I was cleaning up, didn’t want you to leave it behind.”

“Uh… don’t think so. Lemme take a look—” Your arm pulls in an uncomfortable direction as Joel reaches toward the boy to retrieve the mystery object. Well, it’s a mystery to him, you already know exactly what it is. All you can do is hold your breath while Joel undoubtedly reads your handwriting on the front of the envelope, hoping that if you stand perfectly still, you might really be able to disappear. Without the letter, that’s the ending you’re destined for now, anyway.

Joel laughs breathily. “Y’know what, son? Think we did drop this. Thank you kindly for bringin’ it back to us.” Joel squeezes your hand so hard you think all the fragile little bones might shatter, and you bite your lip to stifle a pained whimper. Your eyes start to water as the crippling fear you had felt last night begins to climb its way up the back of your throat, and you wonder if this bus boy in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, might just become the last person besides Joel to see you alive. Or at least, the back of your head. Without giving him a good look at your face, he wouldn’t even be able to recognize you when they show your picture on the news a day or two from now, or be able to go to the police and tell them that this lumberjack-looking older man he encountered was the one he saw you with last. You should’ve known better than to try tempting fate again.

“Of course! Have a good one,” says the bus boy, and a tear escapes your waterline as you wait for the sounds of his footsteps to fade. You can’t be sure if the wetness collecting on your lashes is from the pain of Joel’s iron grip on your hand, or from the sheer terror of being found out by him again. What you do know, is that he doesn’t seem like the type to let you go through all three strikes before he puts you out.

“We will,” Joel responds, but only loud enough for you to hear.

He turns back around after what feels like an eternity, sighing disappointedly. You don’t need to look at him to know that he's upset, angry, furious. It radiates off his skin, penetrates your soul, wraps itself tightly around your throat in replacement of his hands. Your palm is sweating, but he doesn’t let go, just digs his dull nails into the back of your hand as he snarls a one-worded command close to your ear—”Walk.”

Joel drags you the rest of the way to the mailbox, shoving you down onto the wooden bench just beside it. You’re surprised that whatever it is he’s about to do to you, he’s confident enough to do it in broad daylight, in front of a few dozen potential witnesses. You keep your eyes on the ground, waiting to hear the flick of his pocket knife or the cracking of his knuckles, but all that comes is a tired groan as he kneels before you, lifting your chin up to face him.

Joel wags the envelope in front of your face with his other hand, looking at you with a more pitied expression than an enraged one. “You wanna tell me what this is, babydoll?” He asks in a confusingly even tone. You search his eyes for the reddish hue they had become last night when he was spewing obscenities at you and threatening your life, but you don’t find it.

“It’s… it’s a letter,” you admit, blinking away tears. You avoid his gaze even with your chin raised, looking around at the townspeople to see if any of them are staring at the little scene the two of you are putting on.

“Don’t look at them, baby, look at me. They ain’t gonna help you.” Joel jostles your face in his grip, and you flick your eyes back to him immediately. “I can see that it’s a letter, sweetheart. Who were you plannin’ on sendin’ it to, hm? Whose name is this?” Joel prompts, using his thumb to tap the name and address you had scribbled onto the center of the paper.

You let out a sob, the patronizing tone of his questioning making you feel so fucking stupid with just a few words. How is he so fucking good at this? At breaking you down, spinning the effects of his own actions back onto you, making you feel like the one in the wrong.

“My mom, I… I wrote it to my mom,” you reply through little sniffles, and you can hardly stand the exaggeratedly sympathetic way that Joel’s eyebrows peak at your answer.

“Babydoll… What could you possibly have to say to her? You ‘n I both know she don’t care about you anymore, never did. She’d open this up and just throw it right in the trash… I mean—” Joel releases your chin from his hold in order to slide his thumb along the envelope’s seal, tearing open the flap and removing the page of motel stationery you had written your plea on in the dim lighting of the office. “Here, sweetheart. Why don’t you read it to me, lemme hear what you wanted to tell her so badly you decided to do it behind my back. You snuck outta bed last night to do this, I assume?”

You nod, taking the letter from his hand and unfolding it.

“Hm… Have to do somethin’ else about our sleepin’ arrangements from now on, then.” You don’t know what he means by that, and you aren’t looking forward to finding out. “Read it to me, darlin’, go ‘head.”

You take a deep breath, blinking hard as you try to get your watery eyes to focus on the page. “I s-said that, um… that I was sorry for leaving, that I don’t blame her for the way she treated me growing up.” You pause to swallow the moisture collecting in the back of your throat as you cry, and attempt to steady your wavering voice before you continue. “A-and… that I was with you, that we’ve been traveling together, but… But I got scared, and I w-wanted her to come get me. Um… ‘Please don’t forget about me. I love you. I’ll see you when you get here.’ That’s the last thing I said.” You set the letter down on your lap and collapse in on yourself, burying your wet face in your hands as your sobs become full force.

“Oh, babydoll…” Joel soothes, rubbing a hand up and down your arm as you cry. “Where did you get all these ridiculous ideas, hm? Sayin’ that you love her, that you forgive her? I mean, do you really believe she’d come lookin’ for you all the way out here, snatch you up and take you home ‘cause she cares so much about you?” “I… I don’t know, maybe. I just couldn’t sleep last night, I got so afraid of—” “That girl in the parkin’ lot this mornin’... it was her, wasn’t it? You moseyed on into the office lookin’ all pitiful last night and she talked you into doin’ this? She took advantage of you, baby?” Joel brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his face contorted in dramatic concern.

You’re so caught off guard by his accusations, your shuddering body finally stills. You lift your head up from your hands, wiping your eyes on the backs of them. “...What?”

“I mean, I know you know better than this, so it must’ve been her, puttin’ all these nonsense ideas into your head, convincin’ you to do somethin’ that’d only get you hurt… She don’t know what’s good for you like I do, baby. What was gonna happen when you sent off your lil’ letter, and you waited ‘n waited ‘n waited, and your mama never came for you? Who’d be there to take care of you, hm? Me. Always gonna be me.” Joel gently swipes his thumbs underneath your eyes, collecting the salty dampness still there. He sounds so sure of his own words, they’re almost convincing you that you’re misremembering your encounter with Chrissy last night. It was late, you were exhausted, and Joel is right, you do know better, you’ve told him yourself. Had she done more than just provide you with the envelope and stamp? Was the idea in your head before you walked into the office, or had she somehow persuaded you of it without you being any wiser? You’d remember if Joel’s version of the story is the one that really happened, wouldn’t you?

“No, Joel, she didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off swiftly.

“She did, baby, I think she did… Poor girl, must’ve been too out of it to even remember what really happened. D’you see now? This is why it’s gotta be just you ‘n me from now on, sweetheart. ‘Cause there’s all kinds of people out there like her who wanna get inside your head, convince you of things that ain’t true…”

As undeserving as Chrissy may or may not be of the blame for your childish endeavor, you feel relieved that your most recent act of defiance doesn’t seem to have the same effect on Joel as the one you attempted last night. He seems more… sorry for you, than anything else, and you aren’t quite sure why he seems to feel differently now than he did a mere twelve hours ago. Maybe he views it as proof of your loyalty, the fact that you had made it outside, gotten yourself a small taste of freedom, and still decided to crawl back into bed with him afterwards. You could’ve taken off running down the road if you’d really wanted to, his “insurance policies” be damned, but you didn’t. You stayed. And you hate what that says about you—that you’re fucking weak. But you’ll take “weak” over “dead”, at this point.

You decide to poke the bear a little bit, just to confirm if you’re in the clear the way you seem to be. “So… you’re not upset?”

“No, no, I ain’t upset with you, baby. But this is why you can’t do things without me no more, okay? Can’t trust nobody out there except for me, can you?”

You pause, then shake your head at him.

“Good, good girl… Y’know what, baby? Here—” Joel reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a tarnished silver lighter. “Why don’t we just forget about all this, huh? Forget about your mama, that girl back at the motel… All those people who don’t care about you the way I do.” He places the cool metal object in your hand and closes your fingers around it.

“You… want me to burn it?”

Joel shrugs, quirking his mouth into a pout. “Don’t see why you’d wanna keep it… Ain’t goin’ anywhere, is it?”

“...No, guess not,” You mumble under your breath. You know what this means, what it symbolizes, why he wants you to do it yourself. So you can bear witness to your one last glimmer of hope dissolving into embers and ash on the sidewalk at your feet, so you can understand that there is no other outcome other than the one Joel had predetermined for you the second you had agreed to let him take you to Moody’s that night. There is no way out. There is submitting to him, and there is death. Take your pick.

You flick open the lighter, raise the flame to the paper, and watch it ignite. It only takes a few seconds before you feel the heat begin to lick at your fingers, and you drop the still-burning remainder of the letter onto the pavement below so as to spare your hands any further injury today. It curls in on itself and crumples as it chars, and the two of you stare at it until it’s nothing more than a smoldering pile of cinders. You swear you can see an amused smile tug at the corners of Joel’s lips in the edge of your vision.

“Don’t that feel better, baby? Finally lettin’ go of her?” he asks, taking the lighter from your hands and shoving it back into his pocket, along with the envelope.

You sniffle once, shrugging. “A little.”

“I know, sweet girl. It will, in time. You’ll understand sooner or later.” Joel groans as he pushes himself back up from his kneeling position, then extends a hand down for you to take. He helps you stand, then adjusts your hair to sit nicely over your bruises again, before placing his hands on your shoulders. “Now, that red-headed girl… Did you get her name, sweetheart?”

“...Chrissy. Her name was Chrissy,” you answer hesitantly, the intonation of your response sounding more like a question.

“Chrissy…” Joel repeats, letting her name settle on his tongue. “Whaddya say we just head on back, see about payin’ Chrissy a lil’ visit, hm?” He retakes your hand in his, then starts in the direction of the truck.

Your heart sinks into your stomach, realizing the hidden meaning of his words. “Jus’ gotta bring ‘em to me, tha’s all. Maybe go after ‘em if they try to run,” Joel had rasped into your ear last night, when he was describing the role you’d be forced to play in continuing his sick habit.

“W-what? Why? She won’t be there anymore, remember? She said she was leaving, that somebody else would be working in the office for the day,” you frantically remind him, hoping that she can be spared after all, hoping that you can be spared from your first time acting as bait.

Joel stops walking for a moment as he considers your words, then pulls you along with him again. “Pay a visit to whoever’s workin’ in there, then. See if they know where she might be.” He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, just stares straight ahead as he hones in on the truck like a missile. The overly concerned facade he had put on earlier seems to be faded now, replaced with something more akin to bloodthirsty determination.

You scrape the far corners of your mind for something, anything you could say to him that might talk him out of this. “But… I thought you said she took advantage of me? Why would you want to see her if you think she tried to hurt me?”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. His nostrils flare.

“You know why.”

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kisses4spidey · 26 days ago

Text

ambush | ☆ミ p. parker

summary - you go to the rooftop of your apartment, a tired spider-man does too. and now you’re accidentally the only person who knows his identity.

genre - fluff, meet cute sorta, fem!nurse!reader x peter, both college-ish age, can be read as any peter but i imagined tasm!peter

warnings - revealed identities, swearing, peter being an idiot, drinking & underage drinking

w.c. - this is awkward… it ain’t that long tho.

a/n - second peter fic!!! hope you enjoy.

A carton of soju, a blanket, and a box of New York cheese pizza.

You thought that maybe going up there, onto the quiet unused rooftop with all of your guilty pleasures would fix it. Fix the stress building on your shoulders, the headache brewing between your eyebrows, the strain behind your eyes.

But it didn’t. Instead it made you question your life, why couldn’t life always be as carefree as pizza on a rooftop?

Why did you choose to be a nurse in a city where crime is a plague and superheroes put people in more danger than the villains.

Where you’ll be the one to stitch them up, insert IV’s, get them the blood they’ve lost, but the superheroes will always be the one to thank.

Thank you, Spider-man, for not letting the elevator land, but sending 10 people with whiplash to the hospital.

You felt a tear roll down your cheek. A wake up call, that’s what you needed.

Still in your light blue scrubs, you opened your first bottle of many with the intention to get drunk and probably fall asleep under the night sky. You wished there were stars up there, but alas you lived in the city where dreams were made of.

You lent against the entrance walls, facing the lowering sun with no worry of having any unwanted visitors. The apartments were mostly occupied by retired couples and families with kids way too young to be allowed at such heights. You sat there for around an hour, letting time pass you but feel equally guilty about how much time you were wasting.

You sighed through the tranquility, until a sudden thump was heard behind you, and a sudden man was slumped again the rooftop door.

His face was mostly hidden by messy, mousy brown hair, and his entire body was wrapped in what seemed to be some sort of… spider-man suit.

He clutched a mask in his hands, and your eyes widened as he turned his face towards you.

The man was equally as terrified.

“Oh my god!” You covered your mouth and jumped to your feet. Spider-man hurried to cover his face with his mask, and you were both left in silence.

You wiped your cheeks of any tears, suddenly aware of your appearance and situation. He was handsome, too bad you hated him.

“I already saw your face.” You faced Spider-man, eyes scanning his hidden features like it’s the last thing you’ll see. The boy tugged his mask off and puffed his cheeks, looking down in self-disappointment.

Spiderman gave up, “You can’t tell anyone.” His voice cracked slightly at the end but was surprisingly deep for how young he looked. You assumed he was your age, maybe a year younger.

You scoffed and exclaimed, “I can’t tell anyone? You just saw a nurse who pumps stomachs every day drink three bottles of beer in 50 minutes!”

His eyebrows lowered and he grinned, “I actually didn’t see that so you just exposed yourself.”

“Oh, you wanna talk about being exposed?” You huffed out your chest and stared at him.

The rooftop went silent. His eyes crawled over your face and you copied him. He had faint freckles, a stronger nose with a bump and long eyelashes. You felt the suited man’s stare like a shot of venom, a blush creeping onto the tips of your ears as he stretched the silence on.

“I’m Peter Parker.” He held his hand out, red suit stretching in a way you would only see from this close up.

“You’re insane, and digging your own hole here.” You kept your left hand by your side and your right hand in the pocket of your scrub’s shirt. Peter chuckled and walked closer to you, making you step back.

“Look, you already saw my face. You’re bound to see me again, especially since you’re a nurse and I’m a superhero.”

“Did you seriously just call yourself a superhero.”

“I own it, and I am not the one to be judged right now.”

“Oh a girl can’t have a few drinks after a 12 hour shift?”

He shrugged, “I guess not.”

“And it’s not like you make it any easier.” You mumble.

“What?” He asked, lowering his eyebrows. He didn’t know he had made beef with the medical system.

“Well, not just you but every “superhero”. You save people from imminent death, yes, but I don’t think you realise how many of them end up dying from the effects. Broken ribs that puncture lungs, permanent spinal damage, not to mention the mental toll being in the crossfire of those kinds of things. Also, everyone always says thank you to you guys, when it’s like. Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the Hulk could stitch your head back together so skillfully with those big ass hands! Also!-“ You stop. You’ve started rambling, talking the most you have in a long time.

He clenches his jaw, and nods.

It went silent again, you glanced down to your drinks sat on the concrete floor. "You're legal." You said as if you were confident about it. "I'm 20." He responded. "Close enough."

Both of you sat down, backs against the entrance wall, facing the sunset. He grabbed a drink as you picked up your half empty one, he opened his like it was a water bottle cap. Peter glanced down to your pizza box and quietly scoffed, "You don't eat the crust?" "Only weirdos do." You saw his hand grab two out the corner of your eye, and you turned to watch him take a large bite out of one. Mouth half full, he responded, "I guess I'm a weirdo then."

You scoff back and turn to face the nearly absent sun. He had been distracting you from your wallowing, and now the sun wasn't there to keep you awake. Maybe your plans of falling asleep up there was ruined, maybe-

"Why were you crying?" The question stuns you for a second. You don't exactly know how to respond, nobody ever asks you that. "Why do you care?" He swallowed the last of his second crust, "Because I'm your friendly neighbourhood spi-" You hold a pointer finger up and cringe, "Don't even finish that sentence." You sighed, "It's just work and I guess..." "Yeah?" He says quietly, wanting you to continue. "I don't have a lot of people to talk to."

Now that surprised him. You were so easy to talk to, to reason with, to have banter already (even if it was passive aggresive). He wouldn't have been surprised if you had multiple best friends trying to talk you into going to a party that night. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he took another crust. "I guess you did try to make fun of me the second I got here-" "Oh I did not." You turn to see him grinning, obviously joking. Oh.

You cleared your throat and yearned to change the subject, "So, I guess being spiderman's pretty special, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess." "You guess?" "Well, I mean, look at this." He raises his pointer finger and brings your attention to a slice of dried blood on his forehead. "Oh. How'd that happen?" "Simple bank robbery." He shrugged, taking a sip. "Simple." You nodded along, and it went silent again. Some pigeons landed on the concrete barriers that tilted their heads at the pair. A suited superhero, a slightly drunk nurse.

The sun was barely a slither now, the sky blue and orange at the rim. He muffles a chuckle under his breath. You turn to him with a glare.

He looks at you, and you gulp, "I thought you'd offer to clean it. Seeing as though you're a nurse." He motions to your scrubs.

You laugh mockingly, "I'm not taking a stranger into my apartment, even if they're a superhero, or know more than me than what I'd like."

"I sound like a friend." "What's my name, Peter Parker?" He faced you with his mouth slightly opened. And then closed it. He never asked. He took your crust, your beer, and your peace, but he didn't take down your name.

You started to speak, but a loud buzzing somewhere around Spiderman's body, and he sighed. The brunet stood up lazily and took the last swig of soju.

"Gotta go. What happens on this rooftop stays on this rooftop." He smiles, nearing the edge of the rooftop. Its nighttime now, his red suit starkly contrasting with the blue night sky. "Stay safe, don't drink and swing." You both nod at each other before he turns to face the ground. "Wait!"

You stood up, spiderman mask in hand. It was a weird elastic, plasticy metal that you had never felt before. You almost wanted to keep it. "Your mask." You threw it, and he caught it. "Nice throw." "Nice catch."

The tall hero leant off the rooftop, in a way that made your heart race with faux fear that you were also falling. He nods to you before he vanishes, and it looks like he’s trying to say thank you. And you smile, for the first time in many days.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #spiderman #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker fluff #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #marvel fic

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fuqnia · 2 months ago

Text

I'll Compliment You Frequently (1) ₊˚⊹♡

♡ kenny mccormick x fem!reader insert | college au, smut

♡ A/N | hi guys!! sorry for the delay, uni has been kicking my ass LOL. kenny was really fun to write for, i love him sm!! i hope u guys enjoy <3 ( i also took into consideration the feedback i got, and tested out a new writing style, so lmk if it works, or not!) i also made kenny kinda perverted... like he does not hold back LMFAO.

♡ C/W | NSFW (18+), ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP, kissing, smoking (weed and cigarettes), mentions of blood, drinking, kenny has a filthy mouth ☹️

♡ Synopsis | kenny always told himself it was just practice—just harmless lessons, just an excuse to get his hands on you without giving himself away. but every kiss, every touch, every shaky breath you let out made it harder to pretend. and when you finally looked at him like he was the only one you wanted, he knew—this was never just practice, and he was never letting you go.

♡ I HAD TO SPLIT THIS SHIT INTO THREE PARTS [i hate u tumblr >:(]

event masterlist | part two | part three

"Kenny, are you even listening to me?"

Kenny doesn’t look up. He’s got his pencil balanced between two fingers, rolling it back and forth like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. His physics textbook is open on his lap, filled with equations you’re pretty sure he hasn’t actually read in the last ten minutes.

You groan. “Unbelievable.”

He finally looks up, blinking like he’s just remembered you were talking. “Huh?”

“You weren’t listening.”

Kenny smirks, tilting his head. “Nah, I was. You’re freaking out about your big, life-changing first date.” He shifts, closing his textbook with a lazy thud. “With Damien.” A pause. Then, a slow grin. “Damn, never thought you’d be into the whole spawn of Satan thing. Should I start dressing in all black? Buy some candles? Sacrifice Cartman?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m just saying, I didn’t peg you as the type to fall for a guy who probably writes poetry about fire and brimstone.”

At that, your stomach twists—not just from nerves, but because, honestly? You’re still trying to figure out how you ended up here.

You had met Damien a few weeks ago at the beginning of the semester, in one of your shared sociology classes. He had this certain presence, the kind that made people instinctively lean in when he spoke. His dark hair was always perfectly styled, sharp against his pale skin, and he had these striking gray eyes that seemed to study everything—like he was dissecting the world in real time.

He dressed like he’d stepped out of an indie rock band’s music video, all sleek black jeans, worn leather boots, and button-ups with just enough undone to show a silver chain beneath. His answers in class discussions were always thoughtful, maybe a little pretentious, but captivating.

You never expected him to notice you, let alone talk to you, but then one day he did. It started with him borrowing your pen when his ran out of ink, followed by a few casual comments after class. Before you knew it, he was sliding into the seat next to you, effortlessly chatting about everything from sociological theory to obscure albums. Then, out of the blue, he’d asked you out. Just like that.

He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal at all, but you’d been internally screaming ever since. And now here you were, sitting on Kenny’s bed, spiraling.

You groan, flopping onto the edge of his bed. “I don’t like him like that. I just—” You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to act, or what to wear, or if I’m supposed to flirt or let him make the first move. What if I screw it up?”

Kenny watches you for a second, something flickering behind his eyes. It’s not unreadable—it’s softer than usual, almost thoughtful, but it’s gone before you can place it. He stretches, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… it’s just a date. You talk, you eat, you go home. Not much to screw up.”

You glare. “Wow. Thanks for the wisdom.”

He snorts. “Alright, alright.” He taps his pencil against the textbook, eyes flicking over your face before he sighs. “I don’t know why you’re asking me, though.”

“Because,” you say, exasperated, “you’ve been on, like, a hundred dates.”

Kenny hums, leaning his head back against the wall. “Yeah, and?”

“So you know how this stuff works.”

For a moment, he just studies you. His usual smirk is there, but it’s lazy, a little less cocky than normal. He exhales through his nose, stretching his arms behind his head. “Fine. I’ll help.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

Kenny shrugs, but there’s an ease to it, like he’d already made up his mind before you even asked. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” His lips twitch. “Just don’t get all weird on me when you realize I give really good advice.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. The only advice you’ve ever given me is ‘don’t be a little bitch’ and ‘always keep cash for bail.’”

Kenny grins. “And have those ever steered you wrong?”

You shove his shoulder lightly. “You’re such a perv.”

That makes him laugh—an actual laugh, warm and unbothered, like you just confirmed something he’s always known about himself. “What does that have to do with anything?”

You roll your eyes. “Literally everything.”

Kenny smirks, kicking at your thigh lazily. “I think you just like calling me names.”

“I think you just like being a perv,” you shoot back.

He shrugs, all mock innocence. “Gotta stay true to myself.”

You both laugh, the usual back-and-forth coming so easily that, for a second, you almost forget why you came here in the first place. But then the nerves creep back in, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Okay, but seriously—what the hell am I supposed to wear?”

Kenny raises a brow. “Uh… clothes?”

You glare. “Wow. Genius.”

He smirks. “I try.”

“No, but seriously.” You sit up, crossing your legs under you, suddenly restless. “Do I go full goth? Full emo? Full e-girl? What’s the move here?”

Kenny blinks, like he wasn’t expecting you to get this worked up. “You’re… actually stressing about this?”

“Yes, obviously!” You grab a pillow and press it over your face, groaning into the fabric. “I’ve never done this before, and Damien actually looks like he stepped out of a Hot Topic ad, so if I don’t dress the part, what if he thinks I’m lame?”

Kenny snorts. “Babe, you are lame.”

You rip the pillow away just to smack him with it. He laughs, ducking out of the way, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying—you don’t have to be goth to impress him. He’s already taking you out, right? So he clearly likes you as you are.”

You frown, chewing the inside of your cheek. “But what if—”

“No buts.” Kenny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at you. “You could show up in a trash bag, and he’d still think you look good.” A beat. Then, his lips twitch. “Though, if you do go the trash bag route, I’d definitely want to see it.”

You smack his arm. “I’m being serious!”

“So am I! I think you’d rock the hell out of some Hefty.”

You groan, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “This is useless. I’m gonna wear something completely wrong, and he’s gonna realize I have no idea what I’m doing—because I don’t.”

Kenny’s smirk falters for half a second. It’s quick—so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already staring at him. He exhales, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Look,” he says, his voice softer now, “I don’t think you need to be anything for him. Just wear what makes you feel good, and you’ll be fine.”

You blink at him. “That was… surprisingly solid advice.”

Kenny shrugs, playing it off. “Told you I was good at this.” Then, just as quickly, his smirk returns, all smug and teasing again. “Now, if you really want to impress him, I’ve got a few ideas that involve—”

You cut him off by launching the pillow at his face.

Kenny dodges it at the last second, leaning to the side with an exaggerated whoa before laughing. “Weak throw,” he taunts, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “Zero form, no follow-through. Maybe I should be giving you lessons.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother with a comeback. Instead, you stare up at the ceiling, tracing random patterns in the chipped paint above.

“I’ll probably just lean into Damien’s aesthetic anyway,” you say quietly. “When I do my makeup. When I pick my outfit.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything right away. There’s a small pause, just a couple of seconds, but long enough that you notice it. When he finally speaks, his voice is casual—too casual.

“Yeah?” He shifts, resting his chin in his palm. “So, what’s the plan? Smudged eyeliner? Black lipstick? Maybe some fake fangs to really sell the whole ‘mysterious and brooding’ thing?”

You huff a small laugh. “I’m not trying to cosplay as a vampire, Kenny.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He stretches out on the bed, arms behind his head. “But hey, if that’s your thing, no judgment. I support whatever dark and spooky transformation you’re about to undergo.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, hesitating. “It’s not a transformation,” you mutter. “I just… I don’t know. I want him to think I fit into his world.”

Kenny goes quiet again. You don’t look at him, but you can feel him looking at you. It’s different from his usual teasing glances—this one lingers, like he’s debating whether or not to say something.

Then, his voice comes, low and even. “You already do.”

Your brows furrow slightly, and you finally turn your head toward him. “What?”

Kenny shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You don’t have to look like him to fit in with him. If he’s into you, he’s into you. Not some—” He gestures vaguely. “Knockoff Hot Topic model.”

You exhale, pressing your palms over your face. “God, you make it sound so dumb when you put it like that.”

“That’s because it is dumb.” He nudges your foot with his. “You could show up in sweatpants and still have him eating out of the palm of your hand.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “You don’t know that.”

Kenny gives you a look—half amused, half are you serious? “Babe, I do know that. Trust me. He’s already interested. You’re just overthinking.”

You drop your hands and sigh. “That’s all I do.”

Kenny smirks. “Tell me about it.”

You grab the pillow again and whack him with it. This time, you land the hit.

He groans dramatically, flopping onto his side. “Abuse,” he mutters. “This is abuse.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. It’s always like this with Kenny—effortless, familiar, like breathing. You can say the stupidest things, overthink every little detail, and he never makes you feel bad for it. Annoyed? Sure. But not bad.

Your smile fades slightly. “I just don’t wanna mess this up.”

Kenny props himself up on one elbow, looking at you properly now. “You won’t.”

“But what if—”

He cuts you off with a scoff. “Nope. We’re not doing this. No what-ifs, no spiraling. You’re gonna go, be your usual, kinda-annoying-but-still-charming self, and it’s gonna be fine.”

You make a face. “That was almost sweet until you insulted me.”

Kenny grins. “Can’t have you getting too comfortable, babe.”

You shake your head but feel some of the tension in your chest ease. “Okay. Fine. I’ll stop spiraling.”

“For now,” Kenny corrects. “Let’s be real, you’ll start up again in, like, twenty minutes.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “Shut up.”

Kenny just smirks, but there’s something softer beneath it, something he’s not saying. It’s in the way he watches you, the way he seems too relaxed, like he’s holding something back.

You don’t notice it, though. You’re too busy trying to keep your nerves from creeping back in.

Kenny’s phone buzzes against the blanket. He groans, rolling onto his side to grab it, squinting at the screen before muttering, “Oh, shit. I gotta go.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He shoves his phone into his pant pocket and stretches, cracking his back like an old man. “I promised Butters I’d help him with his stupid project for one of his classes.”

You raise a brow. “Wait—project? What, are you teaching a lesson on how to shotgun a beer?”

Kenny smirks. “Tempting, but no. He’s testing out some lesson plans for a class, wants me to pretend to be a first grader so he can practice.”

You snort. “Oh my God. Please tell me you’re gonna mess with him.”

“Obviously.” Kenny grabs his jacket off the chair, slinging it over one shoulder. “I’m thinking full chaos. Maybe some fake tears, throw a tantrum, refuse to share my crayons. Really give him the authentic experience.”

You laugh, standing up to follow him to the door. “He’s gonna regret asking you.”

“He always does.”

You pull the door open, and the two of you step into the hallway. Kenny starts walking backward, hands in his pockets, that lazy smirk still in place. “Hey, by the way—”

You tilt your head. “What?”

His grin widens. “Don’t fuck on the first date.”

Your face heats instantly. “Kenny!”

He barks out a laugh, turning on his heel. “Just saying! Make him work for it, babe.”

“You’re disgusting!” you call after him.

Kenny just throws up a peace sign over his shoulder as he disappears down the hall.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet, the distant hum of campus life barely registering over the sound of your own thoughts.

As expected, Red isn’t there when you step inside. The room is still, untouched since this morning, save for the half-empty coffee cup on your desk and the pile of blankets twisted at the foot of your bed. The silence presses in, thick with the weight of anticipation, of indecision.

Your closet doors are already open, the clothes inside hanging limply, offering no more answers now than they did before.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples. This shouldn’t be so difficult.

And yet, here you are, standing in front of your closet like you’re waiting for it to choose for you.

Your fingers skim over the fabrics—worn-in band tees, oversized sweaters, your favorite pair of ripped jeans. Comfortable. Familiar. You could throw any of them on and be out the door in five minutes, no second-guessing, no spiral of what ifs. But not tonight.

Your hand moves past them, stopping on something buried near the back. A dress. You barely remember buying it, much less why. It’s different from anything you normally wear—shorter, tighter, the kind of thing designed to be looked at.

Damien would like it. Wouldn’t he?

It’s closer to the kind of thing the girls he talks to wear—the ones who fit effortlessly into his world, who don’t overthink every little thing. You aren’t one of them, but maybe for one night, you could pretend. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be done.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you pull it from the hanger and toss it onto the bed.

The rest comes quickly—heels instead of sneakers, jewelry you barely wear, makeup choices you’ve only experimented with in private. Each layer feels like stepping further into something unfamiliar, like molding yourself into a version of you that doesn’t quite exist.

The mirror doesn’t lie. You look different. Not bad. Not wrong. Just… not you.

You adjust the hem of the dress, shifting under the weight of your own reflection. It’s fine. It’s just for tonight. And tonight, you’re going to be the kind of girl someone like Damien would want. Even if you’re not sure that girl is you at all.

Your nails find your lips before you even realize what you’re doing, teeth scraping against the black polish. The sharp chemical taste spreads across your tongue, bitter and familiar, but you don’t stop. You stare at your reflection, eyes scanning over every detail—how the dress clings, how the heels make your legs look longer, how the makeup sharpens your features just enough. You should feel confident. You should feel excited. Instead, the longer you look, the more something uneasy coils in your stomach, tight and restless.

The room is too quiet. The silence only makes it worse, amplifying the thoughts swirling inside your head. You turn away from the mirror and grab your phone from the nightstand, flipping it over in your hands. Your thumb hovers over Kenny’s name in your messages, hesitating. He would answer. Probably. Even if he was busy helping Butters, he’d at least send something, a dumb joke or an offhanded comment, something that would make you roll your eyes but somehow settle the nerves buzzing under your skin.

You type out a message, then delete it. Then do it again. Then again. He already listened to you spiral about this once today. You don’t need to drag him into another round. Instead, you scroll down your contacts and tap on Stan’s name.

You: hey, does this look okay for a date???

You attach a picture, just a mirror selfie, nothing dramatic. The moment you hit send, you regret it. Stan isn’t exactly the best at responding to texts, and Wendy is probably with him anyway. You back out of the chat before you can overthink it any more and tap on Kyle’s name instead.

You: kyle. fashion emergency.

Nothing.

A full minute passes, and your anxiety only grows.

You bite your nail again, tasting the polish, then open Cartman’s chat. You type out something sarcastic, then delete it. Then something a little more serious, then delete that, too. Finally, you just settle on:

You: be honest, do I look stupid in this???

You wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing.

You refresh the messages. Still nothing. No typing bubbles, no read receipts, no responses. The silence feels even louder now, stretching out across the room, pressing against your ribs. They’re probably just busy. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you. You tell yourself that over and over, but it doesn’t stop the creeping unease from settling deeper inside your chest.

You inhale deeply, pressing the phone against your palm, fingertips tapping anxiously against the sides. The rational part of your brain tells you it’s fine. They’re just busy. There’s no reason to feel like this, no reason for the gnawing pit of unease sitting heavy in your stomach. But it’s there anyway, tightening with every second that passes, with every unanswered text sitting in your inbox.

Maybe Kenny would answer.

You hesitate, staring at his name in your messages. You already talked to him about this once today—more like ranted while he rolled his eyes and gave you half-serious advice. He didn’t seem annoyed, but what if he was? What if you were being clingy? What if you were being weird?

You shake your head. It’s Kenny. He wouldn’t care.

Before you can overthink it, you type out a message.

You: ok, real question. do I look good or do I look like an idiot trying too hard??

You bite your lip, stare at the words for a second, then send a follow-up.

You: don’t be a dick about it. ☹️

You exhale, setting the phone on the bed next to you. He’ll answer. He always does. He might take a second if he’s still with Butters, but it won’t be long. Kenny’s the only person who texts back fast—sometimes instantly, sometimes before you even finish typing. But this time, the seconds drag on. Then a full minute. Then another.

You refresh the messages. Nothing.

You check the time, thumb hovering over the screen like maybe, somehow, that will make the notification appear. But there’s still nothing. No reply. No read receipt. Not even the little typing bubble to tell you he saw it.

Your stomach twists. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. He’s busy. He said he’d be helping Butters, and Butters actually takes his schoolwork seriously, so it’s not like Kenny can half-ass it the way he does everything else. He’ll probably see your message later, send back something dumb like “didn’t know you were into the whole desperate goth look, but hey, it works”, and you’ll roll your eyes and move on. But you don’t want to wait.

The walls of your dorm feel smaller by the second, the silence pressing in too hard. You feel ridiculous just sitting here, watching the clock, waiting for a response that isn’t coming anytime soon.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab your bag and shove your phone inside. If he’s not answering, you’ll just go to him. It’s not weird. You’re friends. You’ve crashed Butters’ dorm a million times before—usually with Kenny, but still.

You step out of your dorm and immediately regret it. The hallway is empty, the soft hum of the overhead lights buzzing faintly, but the air feels too open, like the walls have been stripped away and you’re standing under a spotlight. The dress clings uncomfortably to your body, the fabric too thin, too unfamiliar, and the heels throw off your balance just enough to make every step feel unnatural. You cross your arms over your stomach, but it doesn’t make a difference. You still feel exposed.

Campus is quiet. The occasional student walks across the quad, a couple of people sit on the benches outside the library, but no one is paying attention to you. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. But your skin still prickles with the crawling sensation of being watched, of standing out in a way you never do. Every step feels heavier than the last, like your body is moving forward while your mind begs you to turn around.

You’ve never cared about things like this before. Not about whether people were looking, not about how you came across, not about whether or not you belonged in a space. But now, the weight of it settles into your chest, cold and suffocating, the realization creeping in at the edges of your mind—this isn’t you. You aren’t the kind of person who wears things like this, who walks through campus like she owns the place, who turns heads and likes it. You aren’t effortless. You aren’t confident. And right now, you aren’t comfortable.

Your phone stays silent in your bag. You tell yourself not to check it, but the thought lingers anyway. If Kenny had texted back, you wouldn’t still be stuck in this loop of doubt, wouldn’t be picking apart every decision that led to this moment. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But it still stings.

You press your lips together and keep walking. Butters’ dorm isn’t far, but the walk stretches out endlessly, each step echoing too loud in the quiet night. The wind moves through the trees, cool against your skin, and you can’t tell if the shiver that runs up your spine is from the temperature or from the uneasy, sinking feeling in your gut. It’s not just that the dress is uncomfortable—it’s that you feel uncomfortable in it. Like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, slipping into a version of yourself that was never meant to exist.

The building finally comes into view, warm light glowing through the lobby windows. You stop at the entrance, heart beating too fast against your ribs.

You could turn around. You could go back to your dorm, change into something that doesn’t make your chest feel tight, and pretend this never happened. No one would know. No one would care.

But instead, you pull open the door, step inside, and head toward Butters’ room before you can change your mind.

The hallway is quieter than you expected, the fluorescent lights above casting everything in a pale, artificial glow. Your heels click against the tile floor, a sharp contrast to the silence, and you wish you had worn anything else—sneakers, boots, something that didn’t announce your presence with every step. You walk for at least a minute before stopping in front of his door.

You hesitate.

Kenny’s voice carries through the thin wood, low and lazy, words muffled but still carrying that familiar tone of amusement. Butters’ voice follows, more animated, his usual nervous energy laced with whatever conversation they’re in the middle of. You lift your hand to knock, but at the last second, doubt creeps in, and the sound that actually comes out is weak, barely more than a tap.

For a second, nothing happens. Then there’s movement inside. A chair scraping back, footsteps approaching. The handle turns, and when the door swings open, you’re immediately hit with a wall of weed smoke.

Butters blinks at you, blue eyes going wide, mouth parting slightly like his brain hasn’t caught up yet. “Oh—uh—hey,” he says, voice cracking a little. He clears his throat. “What’re—uh, what’re you doin’ here?”

His room smells like a full-blown dispensary. Which is insane, considering he’s an RA. Technically, he’s supposed to be the one enforcing dorm rules, making sure no one is drinking or smoking or doing anything remotely fun. Butters being the Butters, though, probably just means he looks the other way whenever someone offers him a hit.

You glance past him. The window is cracked open, a sad attempt at ventilation, but it’s not doing much. Kenny is sprawled out on Butters’ bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding a joint between his fingers. He hasn’t noticed you yet, still mid-laugh at something that was said before you knocked. His shirt is pulled up slightly, exposing the dip of his hipbones, and the sight of him—completely at ease, completely unbothered—makes something twist in your stomach.

Butters is still staring at you, visibly thrown off. His gaze flickers down for half a second, barely noticeable, but it’s long enough to tell that he’s clocked the outfit. His brows furrow like he’s trying to figure out if he’s hallucinating.

You swallow thickly, throat suddenly dry, and lick your lips, the waxy taste of your lipstick spreading across your tongue. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, nails pressing into the material as you shift on your feet. The air feels heavier now, like it’s pressing down on you from all sides, making the dress cling tighter, the heels feel even more unstable beneath you.

“Hey,” you say softly, barely pushing the word past your lips. “Uh, sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt your project or whatever.”

Butters blinks again, like he’s still processing that you’re actually standing here, dressed like this, standing in his doorway. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then tries again, his voice higher than usual.

“Oh, uh—gosh, no, you ain’t interruptin’ nothin’!” He laughs, a little too quick, a little too forced. “I mean, I was workin’ on my lesson plans, but, uh, I don’t think Kenny’s takin’ it all too seriously.”

Behind him, Kenny exhales a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his voice dripping with lazy amusement. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, dude. I think I make a pretty convincing first grader.”

You force a small smile, but it feels stiff on your face, unnatural. Butters glances back at Kenny, his brows still slightly raised, like he’s searching for some kind of explanation—maybe from him, maybe from you. But Kenny hasn’t even looked at you yet.

You shift your weight again, fingers twitching against the strap of your bag. “Um—can I come in?”

Butters straightens immediately, like he just realized he’s blocking the doorway. “Oh! Oh, yeah! Yeah, sure, come on in!” He steps aside quickly, waving you in, though there’s still a hint of confusion in his voice, like he’s waiting for you to explain why you’re here.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you, and the smell of weed thickens, clinging to your clothes, settling in the back of your throat. The air in here feels different—warmer, hazier, lived-in. A stark contrast to the sterile quiet of your own dorm. But that contrast does nothing to settle the unease sitting heavy in your chest.

You glance at Kenny again, your stomach twisting slightly at how relaxed he looks, at how completely unaffected he seems by the fact that you texted him and he never answered, that you literally had to show up in person just to get a response. He still hasn’t looked at you.

Instead, he flicks the ash from his joint into a crushed soda can on Butters’ desk, stretching his arms over his head with a slow, lazy sigh. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a strip of skin just above his sweatpants. It’s nothing, just a fleeting glimpse, but for some reason, it makes your fingers clench against your bag strap even tighter.

Then, finally—finally—his eyes drag toward you. At first, there’s nothing. Just a glance, casual and fleeting, like you’re just there in the room, another person, another interruption. But then his gaze drops lower, taking in the dress, the heels, the effort you never put in. His smirk falters—just barely, just for a second. His brows knit together, his lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something but then stopping himself.

Something flickers across his face, something sharp and momentary—like recognition, or realization, or maybe something closer to irritation.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. His lips curl back into an easy smirk, his head tilting slightly to the side, his usual amused indifference slipping right back into place like a mask.

“Well, well,” Kenny murmurs, his voice slow and deliberate, finally looking you over like he’s seeing you for the first time. His smirk widens, his tone dropping into something almost mocking. “Look who decided to get all dressed up.”

You don’t like the way Kenny says that. It’s not the words themselves—it’s the way they come out of his mouth, slow and drawling, soaked in something that makes your stomach twist. The way his eyes linger a second too long, like he’s assessing you rather than just seeing you. The way his smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like he’s already decided this whole thing is funny, like you’re just another thing for him to make fun of.

Heat rushes up your neck, crawling over your skin, and before you can stop yourself, you whip around, turning your back to him completely.

“Butters.” His name leaves your mouth in a rush, urgent, almost pleading. You step forward and plant both hands on his shoulders, gripping them just a little too tightly, enough that you can feel the way his body stiffens in surprise. His eyes go huge, his mouth parting slightly, frozen under the intensity of your stare.

“Do I look fine?” Your voice comes out breathless, higher than normal. You barely give him a second to respond before you press further. “Like—actually fine. Do I look… pretty?”

Butters looks like you just grabbed him by the collar and shook him. His entire body goes rigid, his face turning the color of a stop sign, eyes darting everywhere except at you. “W-Well, uh—” He lets out a nervous laugh, shoulders twitching under your hands. “G-Golly, uh, ya look—uh, I mean, o’course ya do! I mean, I ain’t—uh, I ain't never seen ya wear somethin’ like this before, but—uh, y-yeah! You—you look real nice!”

His voice jumps an octave toward the end, cracking slightly, and if you weren’t currently spiraling, you might’ve found it funny. But right now, all you can focus on is the way he stammers through his words, the way he doesn’t sound sure at all, the way his hands twitch awkwardly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. That sinking feeling in your chest only gets heavier.

Because that’s not the answer you wanted. You wanted something solid, something confident. Something to make you feel good. But instead, all you feel is ridiculous.

Like you’ve made a mistake. Like you knew this wasn’t right, but you did it anyway, and now you have to stand here and sit with it.

You swallow hard, your grip on Butters’ shoulders loosening slightly. Your heartbeat pounds too fast in your ears, and suddenly, the dress feels tighter than before, like it’s constricting your ribs, like it’s too much.

Behind you, Kenny makes a noise—something between a scoff and a laugh, exhaling smoke as he speaks. “Jesus, dude, try not to have a heart attack.”

Butters flinches, his face burning even redder, and you should feel bad, but you don’t have the space for it right now. Because now Kenny is talking again, and you can feel his eyes on you without even turning around.

“You good, sweetheart?” His voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s something underneath it—something you can’t place, something that makes your stomach churn. “You seem kinda stressed.”

You don’t turn to face him. You can’t. Not when you know he’ll still be wearing that damn smirk, not when you already feel so stupid. Instead, you pull your hands away from Butters and take a small step back, curling your fingers into your palms.

“Yeah,” you mutter, voice tight. “I’m fine.”

Kenny hums like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you either.

Then Butters—sweet, oblivious, perfectly timed Butters—cuts through the tension like he just remembered why you might be here in the first place.

“Oh, wait a minute—ain’t ya got a date with Damien tonight?”

You blink. The words hit you like a slap to the face, grounding you just enough to snap you back into reality. Right. That’s why you’re here.

Not because you needed to see Kenny. Not because you needed someone to talk you off the ledge. Because you have a date. A real one. With someone who actually asked you out instead of just messing with you until you lost your patience.

You shift on your feet, clearing your throat. “Uh. Yeah. I do.”

Butters brightens a little, clearly relieved to have something normal to latch onto. “Well, shoot! That’s real excitin’! He, uh—he must be real lucky, huh?”

His voice is gentle, reassuring in the way Butters always is, but the compliment makes your stomach twist. You should feel good about that. It’s what you wanted to hear. But the way it sits in your chest feels wrong, like you’re holding onto something fragile, something that might crack open if you let yourself think about it too much.

You barely notice the way Kenny exhales smoke again, slow and measured, before he speaks.

“Lucky, huh?” His tone is light, but there’s something behind it, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Yeah, I bet he thinks so.”

You don’t turn around. Because if you do, you’ll have to see whatever look is on Kenny’s face right now. You’ll have to see that smirk, that lazy amusement, that stupid thing in his eyes that always makes you second-guess everything. And you can’t do that right now. Not when you already feel like you’re hanging onto your confidence by a thread.

Instead, you force a small, dry laugh. “I mean. He asked me out, so. Guess he thinks so.”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Well, yeah, course he does! I mean, you—you really do look nice n’ all! Bet he’s gonna love it!”

Kenny makes another noise behind you, and you don’t know what it means, but you feel it in your spine.

“So, what?” he says, tone still casual, still teasing. “You dress up like this for him, but not for me?”

It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. Kenny says shit like this all the time—pushes buttons, says things just to get a reaction, makes everything sound like something when it isn’t. That’s just him.

And yet.

The way he says it—low and smooth, a smirk audible even without looking—hits somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere you don’t know how to name. You swallow hard, fingers clenching against your bag strap.

You still don’t turn around. Instead, you force another laugh, but this one is thinner, more strained. “Kenny.” You say his name like a warning, but it comes out weaker than you want it to.

He huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Relax, sweetheart. Just messin’ with you.”

Butters, ever the peacemaker, laughs nervously. “A-Aw, c’mon, Kenny, don’t tease her too much now! It’s her first date, she’s probably real nervous ‘bout it already!”

You exhale, shaking your head slightly, trying to pull yourself together. There's an uncomfortable tightness in your chest, like a string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. You don’t want to leave yet. You can’t leave yet—not when you feel like this, like your skin is too tight, like if you step outside, the air itself might suffocate you.

So instead, you turn back to Butters, ignoring the way your pulse jumps when you catch Kenny watching you from the corner of your eye. “Hey, um… mind if I chill here for a while?” Your voice is light, casual, like this is normal. “I’ll even help with your project if you want.”

Butters blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh! Uh—well, gee, yeah, sure! I mean, if ya ain’t in a hurry or nothin’—I could definitely use some help!” He brightens immediately, shuffling back toward his desk. “I was just tryin’ to work out a lesson plan on, uh, phonics! Y’know, like, the way kids learn sounds n’ letters n’ such.”

Behind you, Kenny exhales another slow drag of smoke, shifting on Butters’ bed. “Phonics, huh?” His voice is easy, smooth, teasing. “You think she even knows how to read, dude?”

You roll your eyes and turn to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest. “I do know how to read, actually. But thanks for your concern.”

Kenny smirks, flicking the ash from his joint into the soda can on the desk. “Yeah? Prove it.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, fighting the urge to throw something at him.

Kenny grins wider, completely at ease, and it’s annoying how unaffected he looks. He’s lounging back, half-sprawled, the dim light casting soft shadows along his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the lazy half-lidded amusement in his eyes. He’s comfortable, relaxed, like nothing about this—about you standing in his friend’s dorm, in a dress you wouldn’t normally wear, about the way you were practically begging Butters for validation just a minute ago—means anything to him.

And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe he’s just high, maybe he’s just being Kenny, maybe he’s just teasing. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You suck in a slow breath and shake your head, forcing yourself to turn back to Butters. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got so far.”

Butters immediately brightens again, flipping through a mess of papers on his desk. “Now, see, the tricky part is makin’ it fun, ‘cause kids, they don’t got long attention spans, right? So ya gotta make it a game or somethin’ interactive! I was thinkin’ maybe, like, flashcards or a little song—”

You nod along, grateful for the distraction, for something to ground yourself in. But just as you reach for one of the papers, Kenny shifts behind you, the bed creaking slightly.

“You sure you’re in the mood for schoolwork right now?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something smug, something that makes the back of your neck prickle. “Thought you’d be too busy planning your big night.”

You don’t turn around, but your grip tightens slightly around the paper. “And I thought you’d be too busy helping Butters instead of sitting here getting high on his bed.”

Butters laughs nervously. “A-Aw, c’mon now, I don’t mind it! Besides, it’s, uh—it’s good to have, uh, a subject to practice on, y’know? Kids do get distracted real easy, an’ all—”

Kenny hums. “Right. Gotta prepare for all the troublemakers.”

You do turn then, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes are already on you, his smirk small but sharp, like he’s amused by something you haven’t figured out yet. But there’s something else too—something lingering in the way he’s looking at you, something that makes your stomach feel unsteady. Like he’s waiting for you to react, to crack, to let slip whatever it is you’re trying to hold together.

It’s infuriating. So you hold his gaze, tilting your head slightly. “That is kind of your specialty, isn’t it?”

Kenny’s smirk twitches just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to push back. Then he grins again, slow and lazy, and taps his fingers against his stomach. “Guilty.”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away as long as you probably should.

Butters, ever oblivious, clears his throat and gestures back to the papers in your hands. “Uh, so, about my project—”

You blink and snap yourself out of it, finally breaking eye contact with Kenny as you turn back toward Butters. “Right. Yeah. Let’s focus on that.”

Butters shuffles his notes together, puffing up a little like he’s getting into character. “Alrighty then!” His voice lifts with forced authority, a little shaky but full of determination. “For this lesson, I’m gonna be the teacher, an’ you two are gonna be my students, alright?”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “We’re really doing this?”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Yup! Roleplay is a great way to engage young learners! Helps ‘em get immersed in the lesson an’ retain information better!”

Kenny chuckles from behind you, low and amused. “Y’hear that? We’re gonna retain information better.”

You turn your head just enough to glance at him, your lips twitching with a barely restrained smirk. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll love being a first grader again.”

Kenny shrugs, taking another slow drag from the joint. “Hey, I was a great first grader.”

“Doubtful.”

Butters claps his hands together, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark Kenny is about to make. “Alright, students! Go on an’ take a seat now, class is about to begin!”

You hesitate for a second, eyes flicking to the only two seating options: Butters’ desk chair or his bed, where Kenny is already sprawled out like he owns the place. Sitting at the desk would be too serious, too separate, and after everything tonight, after how you feel in this outfit, sitting alone just feels… unappealing.

So you move toward the bed, pressing a knee onto the mattress before settling in next to Kenny.

The second you do, Kenny shifts, stretching his arms up before letting them fall back against the blanket, his body loose and lazy, completely unbothered. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and the scent of smoke and faded cologne lingers in the air between you.

You try not to focus on it.

You also try not to focus on the fact that your dress rides up just a little when you sit, exposing more of your thigh than you expected. Or the fact that Kenny notices, his gaze flickering down for half a second before he props an arm behind his head like he wasn’t looking at all.

You clear your throat and cross your legs, leaning back against the wall. “Alright, Mr. Stotch,” you say, forcing yourself to focus on Butters instead. “What’s today’s lesson?”

Butters beams, clearly excited to finally have your attention on the lesson itself. He flips through his papers, scanning his notes before looking up at the both of you. “Alrighty, class! Today, we’re gonna be learnin’ all about phonics! Now, does anybody know what a vowel is?”

Kenny snorts. “Yeah, man, I love vowels.”

Butters sighs, already exhausted. “Now, Kenny, that ain’t an answer—”

“They’re the ones that aren’t consonants, right?” you chime in, smirking slightly.

Butters looks relieved. “That’s right! Good job!”

Kenny makes a show of gasping. “Wow. Teacher’s pet much?”

You elbow him lightly. “Maybe if you paid attention instead of getting high, you’d know things.”

Kenny grins, turning his head to look at you fully, his expression playful but unreadable in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Oh, I know things, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches just slightly, but before you can fire back, Butters groans dramatically. “Alright, alright, enough goofin’ off now! Let’s focus, class!” Butters, clearly relieved to have his class under control, puffs up again and clears his throat. “Now! Like I was sayin’, vowels are real important ‘cause they help make up all sorts of words! Ya can’t have a sentence without ‘em! So, let’s practice soundin’ ‘em out together, alright?”

He starts going through his notes, explaining how vowel sounds change depending on the word, how long and short vowels work, how they’re the building blocks of reading. And for a little while, it’s… actually kind of fun. Kenny still throws in dumb remarks here and there, making you roll your eyes, but you let yourself get into it, trying to at least be a little helpful.

Then, just as Butters is getting into a section about blending letters, a loud BANG echoes against the door.

“Butters!” A voice shouts from the other side, urgent and impatient. “Dude, open up! We need an RA!”

All three of you freeze. Butters blinks, caught completely off guard. “Oh, uh—hold on now, I—” He fumbles as he stands, hastily shuffling his papers together before hurrying toward the door. He throws a panicked look over his shoulder as he reaches for the handle. “I swear, if this is ‘bout another clogged toilet—”

He pulls the door open, and standing outside is a frazzled-looking freshman, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Dude,” they gasp, leaning against the frame. “You gotta come quick—there’s, like, actual blood.”

Butters visibly pales. “Wh-What?!”

“My friend split his forehead open downstairs, and there’s so much blood—I think he passed out, man, you gotta do something!”

“Oh golly,” Butters breathes, panic washing over his face. He turns back to you and Kenny, eyes darting wildly. “I—I gotta go—”

Kenny, still lounged on the bed like nothing could possibly be this important, exhales slowly and flicks his joint into the soda can. “Dude, you gonna handle that, or you need me to step in and perform emergency brain surgery?”

Butters gapes at him. “Kenny, this is serious!”

Kenny shrugs. “So’s brain surgery.”

You smack his arm. “Kenny.”

He grins at you, but before he can say anything else, Butters is already scrambling to grab his keys. “Y’all just—stay here! I’ll be right back!”

And with that, he rushes out the door, leaving you and Kenny alone in the hazy dorm room, the sound of hurried footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against the wall as Butters’ frantic footsteps disappear down the hallway. The room feels strangely quiet now, the distant hum of campus life barely filtering through the closed door. The lingering scent of weed still hangs heavy in the air, settling into your skin, into your clothes, into the fabric of Butters’ bedspread beneath you.

You shift slightly, reaching for your phone, unlocking the screen with a quick tap. The time blinks up at you—you still have a little while before Damien picks you up. Not long, but enough. Enough to stay here a little longer, enough to push away the nerves creeping up your spine, enough to breathe.

Kenny hasn’t moved. He’s still sprawled out next to you, half-sitting, half-lounging, his head tilted lazily against the wall. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy-lashed, watching you in that slow, unreadable way that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers tap idly against his stomach, and even though his expression is relaxed, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your breath feel shallow.

You hesitate for a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the side of your phone. Then you turn your head toward him and smile.

“Okay,” you say, shifting a little closer, pressing your knee against the mattress for balance. “Honest opinion.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Outfit. Makeup. Everything. Be real with me.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, eyes flicking slowly over your face, then down, tracing the line of your dress, the curve of your legs where they cross. His tongue flicks over his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, before he exhales and leans back further against the wall.

“You really want my honest opinion?”

You nod, waiting, your stomach twisting with anticipation.

Kenny hums, dragging his fingers through his hair before smirking slightly. “Alright.”

Then he shifts suddenly, moving closer—just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne under the smoke.

“You look hot,” he says simply, like it’s just a fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it. No teasing lilt, no exaggerated flirtation, no smugness. Just those two words, direct and confident, sinking straight into your ribs.

You swallow, your fingers gripping your phone a little tighter. “Yeah?”

Kenny’s smirk twitches, his eyes flicking back to yours. “Yeah.”

Warmth floods through your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you’re smiling—brightly, wide enough that your cheeks start to burn. The relief is instant, washing over you like cool air after being stuck in a too-hot room. It’s stupid how much you needed to hear that, how the knots in your stomach loosen just from two simple words.

You exhale a small, nervous laugh. “I hope Damien thinks so too.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t come back with something snarky like “oh, he will” or “if he doesn’t, he’s blind”. He just looks at you, his smirk frozen in place but his expression unreadable, something flickering behind his eyes too quick to catch.

The silence stretches a second too long, so you shift closer to him, moving across the mattress until your thigh nearly brushes his. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move at all—just watches as you tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers twisting a loose strand nervously.

“I’m so nervous,” you admit, voice quieter now. “Like, I feel stupidly nervous.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, no shit.”

You groan and press your palms together in your lap, bouncing your foot against the mattress. “Like, it’s just a date. Just dinner. It’s not that big of a deal, right?”

Kenny shrugs, taking another slow drag from his joint. “Depends. Are you plannin’ on suckin’ his dick in the parking lot after, or is this more of a getting to know you situation?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “Kenny!”

“What?” He exhales smoke lazily, smirking. “It’s a valid question.”

You shove at his arm, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

He grins, tapping the ash off into the soda can on the nightstand. “I’m just sayin’, if it’s the first option, then yeah, I’d be nervous too.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ.”

Kenny chuckles, watching you with that easy, amused expression. You shift slightly, pressing your knee into the mattress for balance, your body angling toward him. The air feels warm, dense with the sharp, skunky bite of weed, layered beneath the lingering scent of his cologne—something musky, a little sweet, like amber and worn leather. There’s sweat in the mix too, faint but present, clinging to his hoodie from being in this cramped dorm room for too long. It’s familiar, grounding, the kind of scent that sticks to fabric, to skin, to memory.

You hesitate for a second, then take a slow breath. “What do you think of Damien?”

Kenny finally moves, tilting his head slightly, his smirk twitching. “Oh, we’re really doing this?”

You blink. “Doing what?”

“Asking for my opinion like it actually matters.” He lets his head roll against the wall, looking at you with an exaggerated pout. “I dunno, babe, you’ve never given a fuck about my thoughts on the people you’ve dated before.”

You snort. “That’s because I’ve never dated anyone before.”

Kenny’s eyebrows lift slightly, like he forgot that part. “Shit. Right.”

You exhale, fingers playing with the hem of your dress. “I dunno, I just… I feel like I should ask?”

Kenny watches you for a beat, his expression shifting—his smirk falters just slightly, his eyes narrowing like he’s working through a thought he’s not sure he wants to say out loud. Then he shakes his head, the usual amusement sliding back into place. “Alright.” He stretches his arms behind his head, exhaling dramatically. “He’s fine.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s it? Fine?”

Kenny scoffs. “You want me to write a fucking dissertation?” He deepens his voice, putting on a fake, pretentious tone. “Damien Thorn is a captivating subject with an aura of brooding mystique, and I believe he would make an excellent breeding partner for my best friend.”

You smack his arm. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

Kenny laughs, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t hate the guy. He’s just kinda… predictable.”

You tilt your head. “Predictable how?”

“Y’know.” Kenny waves his hand vaguely. “The whole mysterious, I only wear black, I stare out of windows dramatically and contemplate the void thing. Talks like he’s been alive for 300 years and saw all his wives die in childbirth.”

You let out a short laugh. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

Kenny grins. “Tell me he hasn’t unironically said the words ‘society doesn’t understand me’ at least once.”

You hesitate. “…He might have.”

“Exactly.” Kenny sits up a little, leaning toward you. “I mean, I get it. He’s got that whole tortured artist, vampire prince, probably jerks off to his own poetry thing going on. Some girls are into that. You’re obviously into that. Just don’t let him convince you to do weird cult shit, alright?”

You shove his arm again, laughing. “I highly doubt he’s in a cult.”

“Bet you twenty bucks he owns a human skull.”

“He does not own a human skull.”

Kenny snickers. “Not one he admitted to owning, anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest is lighter now, your nerves not nearly as suffocating as they were before.

Kenny’s smirk lingers for a second before he shifts again, moving just slightly closer. His knee knocks against yours, barely noticeable, and when you look up at him again, his expression isn’t as cocky as before.

“Just don’t let him make you feel like you gotta change anything,” Kenny says, voice lower now, steadier. “He likes you, right? So don’t do that thing where you overthink shit and start trying to fit into his world instead of just… y’know. Being you.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. His gaze is steady, his smirk smaller now, like he’s saying something important but trying to play it off like it’s nothing.

“I’m not,” you say quickly, instinctively, but even as the words leave your mouth, they don’t feel entirely true.

Kenny doesn’t call you out on it. He just hums, tilting his head slightly, watching you like he’s waiting for you to say something else.

And you know he knows you’re lying.

It’s in the way his gaze lingers, sharp and assessing, like he’s picking apart your words, unraveling the things you don’t say. Kenny’s always been good at that—good at knowing when you’re bullshitting, good at catching the cracks in your voice, the little shifts in your body language that most people don’t bother to notice.

You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to sit in this feeling, in this stupid tension twisting in your chest, in the way his eyes keep pinning you in place. So you do what you always do when you don’t want Kenny to get too close to the truth.

You change the subject.

You exhale through your nose, glancing down at the joint still smoldering between his fingers. “Can I take a hit?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You shrug, forcing yourself to look casual, even though your heart is still beating too fast in your chest. “It’ll help me relax.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Babe, you take one hit of my shit, and Damien’s gonna have to carry your ass to dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not that much of a lightweight.”

Kenny smirks, lifting the joint between two fingers. “Oh yeah?” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping into something lower, more amused. “Prove it.”

You don’t hesitate. You snatch the joint from his hand and bring it to your lips, inhaling slow and deep just to be a little cocky about it.

The burn hits immediately, hot and acrid down your throat, and you almost cough but refuse to give him the satisfaction. You hold it, exhaling slower than necessary just to make a point.

Kenny watches, eyes flicking between your lips and the lazy tendrils of smoke curling into the air.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, lips twitching. “Didn’t even choke. Proud of you, babe.”

You smirk, tilting your chin up. “Told you.”

But then, after a few seconds, the warmth starts to settle into your limbs, a slow, creeping buzz spreading through your chest, your fingers, your head. It doesn’t hit all at once—it moves in waves, rolling in slow and syrupy, making your body feel both heavier and lighter at the same time. Your shoulders loosen, your legs relax, and the tension that had been coiling in your stomach just moments ago starts to unravel, leaving a strange, heady calm in its place.

You blink, sucking in a slow breath, and hand the joint back to Kenny, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead like you need to steady yourself. “Fucking how strong is your shit?”

Kenny grins around the joint, taking a lazy drag. “You feelin’ it already?”

You scoff. “No, I just always lose control of my spine after one hit.”

Kenny exhales a slow stream of smoke, chuckling. “Yeah, that’ll happen.” He leans back against the wall, stretching his legs out, still watching you with that smug, entertained expression. “My guy hooks me up with the good shit. You’d die if I gave you an edible.”

You groan, letting your head drop back against the wall. “I am gonna die. I can feel my bones.”

Kenny laughs at that, a real, unfiltered laugh, the kind that makes his shoulders shake. “God, you’re a fuckin’ lightweight.”

You glare at him, but it has no weight behind it. Everything feels too hazy, too warm. “Shut up,” you mumble, dragging a hand down your face. “I don’t usually do this, okay? Sorry I don’t have a stoner tolerance like you.”

Kenny smirks, tapping the joint against the ash-filled soda can before taking another drag. “It’s cute.”

You pause, blinking slowly, the words settling over you in a way they probably shouldn’t. Maybe it’s the weed making everything feel heavier, warmer, but the way he said it—it’s cute—lingers in the air longer than it should, hanging between you like an unspoken thing. You don’t look at him.

Instead, you exhale softly, tracing your fingers against the fabric of your dress, grounding yourself in the feeling of it. The buzz in your head makes it easier to let words slip out without overthinking them first, makes it easier to just ask without worrying about how it’ll land.

“Kenny,” you say suddenly, tilting your head to the side. “What was your first serious date like?”

Kenny looks over at you, raising an eyebrow. “Serious?”

“Yeah,” you say, shifting slightly on the bed. “Like, not just some random hookup or some girl you took to a movie just to make out with her after. Like, actual dating.”

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, leaning his head back against the wall. He twirls the joint between his fingers, exhaling a slow curl of smoke before speaking. “Alright. Lemme think.”

You watch him as he stares at the ceiling, like he actually has to dig through his memories to find one that counts.

“Guess that’d be my junior year,” he finally says. “Dated this girl for a couple months. She was nice. Real sweet, real into, like… astrology and crystals and shit.”

You blink, caught off guard. Not because it’s shocking—Kenny’s always been good with people, always had people drawn to him in a way you never really questioned—but because you didn’t know this.

And now that you think about it, you don’t really know anything about any of them when it comes to dating.

You’ve been friends with Kenny, Cartman, Stan, and Kyle since childhood, close enough to have a million inside jokes, to know exactly how each of them takes their coffee, to predict their reactions before they even open their mouths. But their love lives? They never talked to you about that. Maybe you never asked. Maybe it never seemed important. Maybe, until now, you never cared.

But now, sitting here, listening to Kenny talk about a girl you never knew existed, about dates you were never aware of, about pieces of his life you were never a part of… It feels weird.

You push the thought down, forcing a smirk. “Oh, so a witchy girl.”

Kenny grins, glancing at you. “Yeah, she used to say our star signs weren’t compatible or some shit, but she still let me feel her up behind the bleachers, so, y’know. Guess she wasn’t that concerned.”

You roll your eyes, shoving at his arm. “You’re so fucking dumb.”

Kenny chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, but, for real—it was kinda nice. We went on actual dates. Coffee shops, late-night drives, that kinda shit. Used to sit on her roof and talk for hours.”

Your fingers twitch slightly against your lap. “Why’d you break up?”

Kenny exhales, rubbing his thumb against the filter of the joint. “She moved.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, but it’s slower this time, like he’s trying to brush it off before it can mean too much. “Her mom got a new job or whatever, and that was that. We texted for a little after, but y’know how that shit goes.”

You watch him for a second, the way his jaw tenses just slightly, the way he keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling like he doesn’t really want to see your reaction.

“You liked her a lot, huh?” you ask, softer this time.

Kenny smirks, but it’s smaller now, lazier, like he’s letting it sit on his lips just to keep up the act. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

A strange weight settles in your stomach, warm and pressing, like a slow burn spreading through your chest. It isn’t anger, isn’t sadness, but it itches in a way you don’t know how to shake. The thought of Kenny—your Kenny—being with someone else, taking her on late-night drives, sitting on rooftops with her, kissing her—it twists at something deep inside you, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

You shift on the bed, pressing your foot against Kenny’s ankle without thinking. Your fingers move automatically, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the bone, grounding yourself in the warmth of his skin through his socks. It’s casual, the kind of touch that’s always been normal between you, but right now, under the weight of his gaze—half-lidded, curious, lingering—it feels different.

You clear your throat. “Were you nervous?”

Kenny blinks, tilting his head slightly. “For what?”

“Your first date.” Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “Like, actually nervous?”

Kenny scoffs, his grin twitching. “Pfft, no.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

He smirks. “What can I say? I’m naturally charming.”

You roll your eyes but keep tracing circles against his ankle. “Kenny.”

He exhales, like he’s debating whether to tell you the truth. Then, finally, he sighs and leans further back against the wall, legs stretching out slightly.

“Alright, fine,” he admits. “Maybe a little nervous.”

You smirk. “I knew it.”

Kenny nudges your knee with his own, the pressure warm and firm. “Shut the fuck up, dude. I wasn’t you nervous.”

You scoff. “Okay, rude.”

He chuckles, shifting slightly, his knee pressing against yours again. “I mean, c’mon. You’re sitting here rubbing my ankle like you’re tryin’ to summon a genie. If you were any more nervous, you’d be vibrating.”

Heat spreads up your neck, but you don’t move your hand. You should, but you don’t. Instead, you huff, tilting your head back against the wall. “God, I hate you.”

Kenny grins, lazy and satisfied. “Nah. You love me.”

The words land differently this time, settling into the space between you. They should roll off like they always do, easy and meaningless, just another joke between best friends. But tonight, they hang in the air for a second too long, stretching between the warmth of his skin against yours, the slow buzz in your head, the way his voice dips just slightly when he says it.

You straighten up, pulling your hands away from him, suddenly too aware of yourself, of where you’re sitting, of how close you let yourself get. Your body still feels loose from the weed, but inside, there’s a tight knot of unease curling in your stomach. It’s not about him, not about who he kissed, not about some girl you never met. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that you’ve never kissed anyone.

You press your palms against your thighs, staring down at them. Your dress has ridden up slightly, showing more skin than you meant to, and for some reason, that makes your face heat even more.

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. It’s never mattered before. None of the guys ever talked about their relationships with you—not Stan, not Kyle, not even Cartman. Not because they didn’t have them, but because… because why? Because they knew? Because they knew you didn’t have stories of your own to share, because they knew you’d never had a first kiss, a first date, a first anything?

It’s like they were all protecting you from it. From knowing too much, from feeling left out. But now, sitting next to Kenny, it’s impossible to ignore.

You swallow hard. “Did you guys kiss?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”

You clear your throat, eyes still locked on your lap. “On your first date,” you clarify, quieter now. “Did you kiss her?”

Kenny exhales slowly, like he’s deciding whether to mess with you or just answer. Then, after a pause, he smirks. “Yeah.”

Your stomach dips. Not because you’re jealous. Not because you wish it had been you. But because he just knows—because they all know—and no one ever says it out loud.

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it.

Kenny tilts his head, looking at you like you just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Uh… ‘cause I wanted to?”

You nod, your nails digging into the fabric of your dress. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

Kenny frowns slightly, watching you a little too closely now. “Babe, what’s with the interrogation?”

You force a small laugh, shaking your head. “No reason.”

Kenny doesn’t buy it. You can feel him not buying it. But he doesn’t push.

Instead, he leans back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Y’know,” he says, voice lazier now, like he’s just musing aloud, “I was gonna ask if you’ve ever kissed anyone, but I feel like I already know the answer.”

Your entire body tenses. “Fuck off.”

He grins, eyes flashing with something smug. “So that’s a no, then?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

Kenny laughs, stretching his arms behind his head. “Babe, it’s fine. Nothin’ wrong with being a late bloomer.”

You exhale sharply, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. It’s not like you didn’t know, but hearing it out loud, having it confirmed, makes you feel stupid. You force yourself to shrug, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Kenny watches you for a beat, smirk twitching slightly. Then, suddenly, his grin turns sly. “You nervous about kissing Thorn tonight?”

You freeze. His smirk widens. “Oh shit—you are.”

You click your heels together nervously, the soft tapping sound filling the space between you. Your fingers twitch against your thighs, and the heat from the weed makes everything feel too much—too loud, too noticeable, too real. You groan, dragging your hands down your face before turning to Kenny, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Of course I’m nervous,” you say, voice tight. “I don’t wanna screw this up.”

Kenny tilts his head slightly, that same knowing smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes stay locked onto yours, sharp and focused. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you press your palms against your lap, shifting against the bed.

“I don’t know the first thing about kissing,” you admit, voice quieter now, like saying it out loud makes it real. “Like, yeah, I’ve read books, and I’ve seen it in movies and TV and whatever, but it’s not the same. It’s not real.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, and for once, he doesn’t throw out some crude joke, doesn’t immediately make fun of you. He just leans back against the wall, rolling the joint between his fingers, tapping it lightly against the edge of the soda can.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, his voice easy, like this is just another conversation. “It’s not the same.”

You let out a long sigh, tipping your head back. “God, what if I’m bad at it? What if he can tell I’ve never done it before?”

Kenny lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Babe, trust me, it’s not that deep.”

You snap your head toward him. “Yes, it is that deep! I don’t wanna be weird about it! I don’t wanna be one of those people who doesn’t know where to put their hands or, like, smashes their teeth together or—”

Kenny laughs, cutting you off, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, dude, you are way too in your own head about this.”

You frown. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Kenny hums, exhaling another slow curl of smoke toward the ceiling, and when he looks at you again, his smirk has faded just a little. His gaze lingers, his expression thoughtful, like he’s actually considering something instead of just coming up with another joke.

Then he tilts his head slightly and says, “You want me to teach you?”

For a second, you think you misheard him, that maybe the weed is making you imagine things, but no—Kenny is still looking at you, still smirking, still waiting. His posture is relaxed, but there’s a sharpness in his expression now, a weight behind the words that makes your stomach twist.

Your mouth goes dry. “What?”

Kenny shrugs, tapping ash from the joint. “I mean, I could teach you.” His lips twitch, like he’s amused by the way you instantly froze. “Since you’re so fuckin’ worried about being bad at it.”

Your stomach flips, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Your body knows this is a joke, knows this is just Kenny being Kenny, but for some reason, your brain short-circuits at the idea, at the possibility.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “Oh, please.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, entirely too entertained by your reaction. “What? You don’t trust me?”

You cross your arms. “I do trust you.”

“So what’s the problem?” His voice is smooth, coaxing, like he’s daring you to take him seriously.

“The problem is that you’re a jackass,” you shoot back, glaring at him, but your chest feels too warm, your skin buzzing.

Kenny chuckles, watching you like he’s already won. He leans in just slightly, his knee pressing more firmly against yours. “C’mon, babe. What better way to learn than hands-on experience?”

Your heartbeat stutters. You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything. Because if you open your mouth right now, you’re not sure what’s going to come out.

And Kenny—fucking Kenny—sees it. His smirk deepens, but his eyes stay locked on yours, steady and unreadable in a way that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers tap against his thigh, slow and deliberate, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost the teasing edge. It’s quieter now, lower, like he’s giving you an out.

“Just say the word.”

You fiddle with the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric between your fingers as your frown deepens. Heat creeps up your neck, your chest, your face—too much warmth pooling beneath your skin, making it impossible to sit still.

You swallow hard, eyes darting toward the door before flicking back to him. “You’re just gonna make fun of me,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, his smirk twitching at the edges. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” You glare at him, but it doesn’t hold much weight, not with the way your pulse is racing, not with the way his knee is still pressed against yours, grounding you in place. “You’ll do it, and then you’ll be a dick about it forever.”

Kenny exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “If I was gonna make fun of you, I would’ve already done it.”

You press your lips together, still twisting the fabric of your dress, still feeling like you’re one wrong move away from completely losing your grip on reality.

“And what if Butters comes back?” you say quickly, grasping at the excuse like it’s a lifeline. “That’d be—mortifying.”

Kenny chuckles, leaning in slightly. “Please. Butters walks in on this? That’s what makes him finally drop out and join a monastery.”

You let out a short laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “Shut up.”

Kenny grins, but the usual lightness in his expression doesn’t fully return. There’s a sharpness beneath the amusement, a glint in his eyes that lingers as he watches you. His gaze moves over your face, slower now, like he’s picking apart every detail—the way your fingers won’t stop twisting in your dress, the way your breathing has changed, the way your eyes flicker to the door like you’re looking for an escape. He’s searching for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that you’re refusing just to refuse.

You shift slightly, your body moving before your brain fully catches up. It’s small—just a slow, uncertain scoot closer—but Kenny notices immediately. His smirk twitches, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you close the space between you.

Without looking away, he reaches over and taps the joint against the edge of the soda can, snuffing it out before setting it down completely. The room feels quieter now, the haze of smoke lingering but no longer moving, the only sound the distant hum of campus outside and the soft rustling of your dress as you fidget in place.

Your fingers curl against the fabric. Your throat feels tight. “This won’t be weird, right?”

Kenny’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t speak, waiting for you to finish.

You lick your lips, glancing at him before looking down at your lap. “We’ll still be best friends?”

For the first time tonight, Kenny hesitates. It’s brief, barely a flicker, but you see it—the way his smirk fades just enough, the way his eyes drop from yours for half a second before snapping back up. He leans back against the wall, resting his arm against his knee, and lets out a slow breath.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, his voice lower now, quieter. “We’ll still be best friends.”

You study him, searching his face for anything—any shift, any sign that he’s just saying what you want to hear. But Kenny is good at this. He’s always been good at keeping things easy, at making you believe nothing ever rattles him.

And maybe that’s what you want right now. Maybe you just need this to be easy.

Your fingers tighten around the hem of your dress again, pulse hammering in your ears. You nod, exhaling softly.

“Okay.”

Kenny blinks at you owlishly, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be found. For a moment, he just stares, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to laugh it off, to shove him and call him a dumbass like you always do. But you don’t.

Instead, you stay right where you are, hands resting lightly against your lap.. The warm haze from the weed still lingers in your body, but this feels different now—clearer, more deliberate.

Then Kenny exhales through his nose, a boyish smile tugging at his lips, lopsided and easy in a way that makes your stomach flip. He tilts his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours.

“C’mere.” The words are soft, almost coaxing.

You should hesitate. You should think about this more, about what it means, about why Kenny—your best friend, your Kenny—is looking at you like this, like he’s completely fine with this, like it’s not a big deal at all.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you fully climb onto Butters’ mattress, shifting closer to him. The bed creaks beneath the movement, the fabric of your dress rustling as you settle beside him. You’re close enough now that your knees bump together, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him, his orange parka bunched up slightly where it’s unzipped, revealing a worn-out band tee underneath.

You tilt your chin up, looking at him, and smile wider. “You seriously don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice quieter now, like you don’t want to break whatever this moment is. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Kenny’s eyes flicker, the dim lighting making the blue of them darker, softer. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t do any of the things you expect him to do. Instead, he reaches up lazily, rubbing the side of his neck before dropping his hand back down.

“Babe,” he says, and his voice is different now—lower, warmer. “If I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have told you to c’mere.”

You nod once, barely moving, voice just above a whisper. “Okay.”

Kenny’s lips twitch, and for a split second, he looks at you like he knows exactly what’s going through your head. But he doesn’t say anything else. He just waits.

You wet your lips, shifting slightly on the mattress, fingers still curled against the hem of your dress. Your pulse is loud, drumming in your ears, and even though you’re the one who asked for this, who let it get this far, you suddenly feel like you’re out of your depth.

You blink up at him, hesitating before mumbling, “So… how does this usually start?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What, you want me to narrate it for you?”

You huff, nudging his knee with yours. “Kenny.”

He grins, but there’s something easy about it, something reassuring. He leans back a little, resting his weight on one hand, the other draped over his knee. “Relax. It’s not a fuckin’ science experiment.”

“Yeah, but—” You exhale sharply, fidgeting with your dress again. “Do I, like… do something? Say something?”

Kenny watches you for a second, amusement flickering in his eyes, but there’s no teasing bite behind it. His gaze drops briefly—to your mouth, then back up—and the movement makes your stomach flip.

He tilts his head slightly, voice dropping just enough to make your skin buzz. “Nah. You just let it happen.”

Just let it happen. Like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not sending a nervous jolt through every inch of your body.

Your fingers twitch, and you inhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. You glance at his lips—just a flicker of a look, barely a second—but he catches it. His smirk deepens, but his voice stays calm when he murmurs, “You wanna try, or you need me to do all the work?”

You laugh, breathless and anxious, shaking your head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Kenny grins. “Yeah, that’s kinda the whole point.”

You swallow, hands gripping your dress tighter. Finally, you make yourself move. Your heart pounds as you shift closer, your knees sinking into the mattress. Your movements are slow, hesitant, but Kenny doesn’t pull away—he just watches, his expression calm, patient, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

Your hands land on his knees, plopping down with a little less grace than you intended, fingers squeezing lightly like you need something to ground yourself. You can feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his jeans, solid and real beneath your palms.

You’re close now. Really close. You stare at his face, your breath uneven as you take in every detail you never let yourself look at for this long before.

His eyes—so blue, deeper in this dim lighting, framed by lashes that are unfairly thick. His freckles, scattered across his nose and cheekbones, some so faint they’re almost invisible against his skin. The silver glint of his lip piercing, the slight redness around the hoop in his eyebrow, like he’s fidgeted with it too much today.

And fuck, he smells good. The familiar scent of smoke clings to him, but underneath it, you catch the warm spice of his cologne—something woody, a little sweet, mixed with the faint musk of skin warmed by too many layers. It makes your stomach twist, makes your fingers dig just slightly into his knees.

Kenny doesn’t smirk, doesn’t joke, doesn’t make it a thing. His lips part just slightly, his gaze steady, something careful about the way he’s looking at you now—relaxed, sure of himself, but also waiting. Like he’s giving you all the time in the world to figure out what you want to do next.

Your breathing is shallow, your pulse wild. You wet your lips, eyes flicking downward for half a second before snapping back up, nervous energy coiled tight in your chest.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, voice low. “You good?”

You bite your lip, the pressure grounding you for half a second, but it doesn’t help much. Your chest is tight, stomach twisted into nervous knots, hands still resting on Kenny’s knees like they belong there. You can feel your pulse, each beat heavy in your throat, behind your ribs, beneath your skin.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you shake your head lightly. Kenny notices. His eyebrows lift just a little, his lips parting like he’s about to ask what’s wrong, but you speak first—your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you…?” Your fingers twitch against the rough denim beneath them, gripping slightly before loosening again. You swallow hard, eyes flicking to his lips, then back up. “Can you start it?”

Kenny blinks once, slowly, and you hate how nervous you feel under his gaze, how exposed you must look right now. You don’t even know why you asked, why the words slipped out so naturally. Maybe it’s because you don’t trust yourself to get this right. Maybe it’s because if you make the first move, you’ll hesitate, overthink, ruin it before it even happens.

Kenny’s expression shifts—his smirk isn’t there anymore, but he doesn’t look surprised either. He lifts a hand, slow and easy, and rests it against your hip.

“You sure?” His voice is quiet, so much gentler than you expected.

You nod again, a little too quickly. “Yeah.”

Kenny hums, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress, barely a touch at all, just a faint pressure against your hip. He’s still watching you, still waiting like he’s making absolutely sure you won’t change your mind.

And then, finally, he moves. It’s slow—so slow that it almost drives you insane. He shifts forward just enough that his nose bumps yours, his breath warm when it ghosts over your lips. His hand on your hip squeezes, just a little, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

But you don’t. You can’t. Your eyes flutter shut just as he finally closes the space between you, pressing his lips to yours.

For a moment, your brain short-circuits. Every nerve in your body goes into overdrive, screaming at you that this is happening, that Kenny’s mouth is on yours, that this isn’t a dream or a joke or some hypothetical situation—you’re kissing him.

In your panic, you react way too fast. You lean in too hard, pressing your face into his like you’re trying to merge with him. Your nose smashes against his cheek, and for half a second, you swear you can hear the muffled oomph he lets out as you practically headbutt him.

Kenny jerks back, startled, hands instinctively flying up.

And then—

He starts laughing.

A deep, unrestrained laugh bursts out of him, his head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking. His fingers press against his mouth for a second like he’s processing what just happened, but it does nothing to hide his grin.

“Oh, fuck—” He exhales through his laughter, eyes shining with amusement. “You tryna kill me?”

Your entire body floods with mortification. “Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with both hands. “I hate myself.”

Kenny snickers, still shaking his head. “That was—I mean, holy shit, that was aggressive. That was a choice.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Your voice comes out strangled, your face burning so hot you swear you’re seconds away from combusting.

Kenny wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “You face-planted into me. That was like—” He presses his palm flat against his face, mimicking the movement. “That was a full-on body slam.”

You groan again, collapsing forward onto his shoulder. “I knew this was a mistake.”

Kenny chuckles, hands settling lightly against your waist. “Nah, it was hilarious.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “It was not hilarious.”

His smirk grows. “It kinda was.”

You let out a dramatic, suffering groan, gripping the fabric of his band tee in your fists. “I knew I’d be bad at this.”

Kenny clicks his tongue, tilting his head. “Nah. You’re just overthinking it.”

You huff, still gripping his shirt. “Overthinking what? I literally attacked your face.”

Kenny grins, squeezing your waist lightly. “Yeah, you did. Real eager. Love the enthusiasm.”

You whine in embarrassment, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder again. “You’re so annoying.”

Kenny snickers, rubbing slow circles against your hip with his thumb. “Relax. We’ll try again.”

You hesitate, your breath catching slightly. “W-We?”

He leans in a little, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Yeah, we.”

Slowly, you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His smirk is smaller now, his amusement still lingering, but there’s no teasing in his expression anymore. His eyes are steady, locked onto yours, his grip on your waist grounding, warm.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, his voice lower when he asks, “That okay?”

You nod. That’s all it takes. Kenny leans in again, slower this time, his lips brushing against yours before pressing in fully. The kiss is soft, deliberate—nothing rushed or messy, just the warmth of his mouth against yours, the slight tilt of his head, the faint inhale he takes between movements. It’s nice. It feels good.

And then, without thinking, you shove your tongue into his mouth like you’re trying to force the next step instead of easing into it.

Kenny makes a muffled, startled sound before breaking away, hands gripping your waist to push you back slightly. You barely process what happened before you see the expression on his face—his mouth parted, blinking like you physically knocked the breath out of him.

His lips twitch. And twitch again. His shoulders shake as he presses his fist against his mouth, exhaling sharply through his nose, trying so hard not to crack up.

“NOT AGAIN,” you groan, hands flying to your face.

Kenny inhales sharply, his voice tight like he’s forcing himself to sound normal. “I—” He clears his throat, shaking his head. “No, no, it was good—”

You peek between your fingers. “You’re lying.”

“I swear,” he says, his voice strained like he’s barely keeping it together.

“You are literally trying not to laugh—”

“I’m—” Kenny presses his lips together hard, but a short chuckle escapes before he can stop it. He exhales, grinning. “Okay, maybe you jumped the gun a little.”

“I suffocated you,” you mumble into his shirt.

He snickers. “I mean, yeah. A little. But hey, some people are into that.”

You groan louder, shoving his shoulder weakly. “Shut up.”

Kenny only grins, reaching up with deliberate ease to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, warm and unhurried, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before falling back down. The touch is soft, so casual, like he’s done it a hundred times before, like it means nothing. But your stomach clenches, breath stalling in your throat as if it does.

He hums lightly, amusement flickering in his expression as he tilts his head. “Third time’s the charm.”

Your pulse jumps. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, because you know he’s teasing, but the way he says it—the slow drag of his voice, the rasp in his tone—makes your body go completely useless. You feel it everywhere, a warmth that pools beneath your ribs, creeping down your spine, curling into your fingers. You should say something back, roll your eyes, laugh it off. Do anything but stare at him like an idiot.

Kenny notices immediately. The smirk on his lips softens, the playfulness in his expression giving way to something calmer, something steadier. He doesn’t make another joke, doesn’t push you like you’re expecting. Instead, his hands lift with an ease that makes your throat tighten, fingers curving around your face like he’s done this before—like it’s second nature. His palms are warm, rough in some places but gentle against your skin, his thumbs brushing slow, absentminded strokes over the apples of your cheeks.

You feel small beneath his hands, every inch of you burning under his stare. You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you like this—like they weren’t in a hurry, like they weren’t waiting for you to mess up, like they wanted to see you like this.

You barely manage to force a weak smile, uncertain and shaky, but it’s real, and Kenny sees it. His own smile lingers just a second longer, and then, finally, he leans in.

Your entire body feels locked in place, nerves coiling so tightly that you’re convinced you might combust before his lips even touch yours. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth, the slight shift of his fingers against your skin as he tilts his head. It’s slow—painfully, agonizingly slow—and you don’t know if it’s because he’s hesitating or because he knows you need the time to process what’s happening. Either way, it makes your head spin.

Then, finally, his lips press against yours. Your stomach tightens, breath catching in your throat as you press in slightly, mirroring the gentle pressure he gives. His lips move against yours with an easy confidence, coaxing you into the rhythm of it, letting you take your time. It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s better.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just enough to send a shiver down your spine, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks again, keeping you steady. It’s effortless, natural, like you were always supposed to be here, like kissing Kenny McCormick was never meant to feel awkward or forced or rushed. It just is.

You mirror him, shifting slightly as your hands slide up from his knees to rest against his chest. The fabric of his shirt is soft under your fingers, warmed by his body heat, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You part your lips just a little more, letting him take the lead, letting yourself follow the rhythm he’s already set. When you exhale, a quiet, breathy whimper slips out before you can stop it.

Kenny reacts immediately. His fingers tighten against your waist, just enough for you to feel it, for it to send a spark down your spine. His lips press harder against yours, the teasing edge from earlier gone completely, replaced with something slower, heavier. His hand slips from your cheek, fingers dragging lightly down your jaw before settling at the side of your neck, his thumb pressing just beneath your pulse point.

Your lips part slightly, and the second they do, Kenny takes it. His tongue slides against yours, slow, careful, like he’s waiting to see how you’ll react. And the only thing you can do is melt into it.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, pulling slightly, and Kenny groans softly into your mouth. The sound is quiet, but you feel it like a shock straight through your chest. It makes, your body feel too warm, too aware of every place he’s touching you. You can’t tell if it’s the weed still lingering in your system, making everything feel heavier, or if it’s just him. Either way, you don’t care. You don’t stop. You don’t overthink it. You just let it happen.

Kenny moves against you, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to teach you what this is supposed to feel like. His lips mold perfectly to yours, warm and sure, his fingers pressing into your waist in a way that makes your body melt into the heat of him. You part your lips slightly, mirroring the way he tilts his head, and the second he deepens the kiss more, a slow warmth curls through you, leaving your fingers twitching against his chest.

Then—

The sound of keys jingling outside the door yanks you back to reality like a bucket of ice water.

The two of you jerk apart so fast it’s almost embarrassing. You scramble to put space between your bodies, hands gripping the mattress to steady yourself as your heart slams against your ribs. Kenny reacts a second slower, still blinking like his brain hasn’t quite caught up yet, his lips slightly parted, his fingers frozen midair where they had been gripping your waist just moments ago. Your breaths come fast, uneven, your body still buzzing with the ghost of his touch, and you barely have time to process what just happened before the door swings open.

Butters rushes inside, his face flushed, hair slightly damp with sweat, his entire body vibrating like he just ran all the way across campus. He doesn’t even look at you and Kenny, doesn’t notice how far apart you suddenly are, doesn’t clock the tension radiating off you both like heat off pavement. He just stumbles into the room, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his hands shaking as he points back toward the door, his voice high and breathless as he blurts out, “There was so much blood.”

You barely register the words at first, still too dazed from what just happened, your mind still stuck in the feel of Kenny’s hands on you, his mouth pressed against yours. But the way Butters’ voice cracks at the end, the way he looks genuinely rattled, has your body catching up before your brain does. You sit up straighter, blinking fast, heart still hammering in your chest as you try to force your thoughts back to reality.

Kenny, on the other hand, just sighs, running a hand down his face like this is the most exhausting thing he’s had to deal with today. “Jesus, dude,” he mutters, shaking his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Butters is still catching his breath, gripping the back of his desk chair like he needs to physically steady himself. “Th-That kid that knocked earlier—he wasn’t jokin’!” His voice wobbles, his hands still shaking. “Some guy split his forehead open on the stairs, and—and oh golly, Kenny, there was so much blood—I think he passed out before the paramedics even got there!”

The words hit you like a slap, your stomach flipping in actual concern this time. “Are you serious?”

“I—I didn’t know what to do! His friend was freakin’ out, and I—oh gosh, I’ve never seen so much blood come outta someone��s head before, I swear—”

You barely hear the rest. Your brain is still reeling, but not for the right reasons. Butters is talking, still rambling about the student, about how the ambulance showed up and how the paramedics asked him questions he definitely wasn’t qualified to answer. But you’re only half-listening, only catching pieces of his words, because your whole body still feels hot from the kiss, your lips still tingle from Kenny’s, and sitting here next to him like nothing happened feels impossible.

And Kenny—of course Kenny—looks totally fine. Relaxed, even. Like he wasn’t just making out with you on Butters’ bed, like he wasn’t just kissing you like he meant it, like he wasn’t just touching you like he wanted to. He sits there, his legs stretched out slightly, arms resting on his knees, nodding along to whatever Butters is saying like he’s actually paying attention. But when you glance at him, you see it. The way his tongue flicks out just slightly to wet his lips. The way his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s resisting the urge to move. The way he hasn’t put much distance between you, like some part of him doesn’t want to.

Kenny finally exhales, long and slow, before pushing himself off the bed. The mattress shifts beneath you as he stands, and you watch from the corner of your eye as he crosses the room, his usual lazy swagger in his step despite the fact that Butters still looks shaken.

Butters is gripping the back of his desk chair so tightly that his knuckles are white, his chest still rising and falling unevenly. His face is flushed, his eyes darting wildly like his brain is still stuck back there, still seeing the blood pooling on the floor.

Kenny doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps up behind Butters and throws an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a loose, lazy half-hug, his lips brushing close to Butters’ ear as he murmurs something low, something you don’t catch. But whatever it is, it works—Butters’ shoulders slump slightly, his grip on the chair loosening as he exhales shakily, nodding along to whatever Kenny is saying.

You take the moment for what it is—a chance to breathe, to collect yourself, to force your body to calm down. You exhale sharply, pushing the thought away, and move on autopilot. Your fingers smooth out the fabric of your dress, adjusting the hem where it had bunched up slightly, fixing the way the straps had slipped off your shoulders without you even noticing. Your hair is next. You reach up, smoothing your fingers through it, checking for any tangles, for anything that might look out of place. The last thing you need is for Butters to turn around and see something, to somehow know just from looking at you.

You grab your phone off the bed, fingers ghosting over the screen, but instead of unlocking it, you hesitate.

Your thumb drags absently along the edge of the device before you press it lightly against your lips, your stomach twisting when you feel the slight swell, the lingering dampness. They tingle, faint but noticeable, like a reminder that Kenny had just been there, that this wasn’t some hazy, almost happened moment.

You shake the thought away and reach for your bag instead, fingers digging through it until you find your makeup pouch. The zipper slides open with a quiet rasp, and you pull out your lip tint and gloss, checking your reflection in your phone screen as you reapply both with quick, practiced strokes. The tint darkens your lips back to the way they were before, covering the slight redness, making it look like nothing happened. The gloss goes on smooth, sticky, sealing everything back in place like armor.

You click the cap back on, slip both items back into your bag, and inhale deeply through your nose before finally looking up again.

Kenny still has an arm slung around Butters, still murmuring to him in that same low, easy voice, like he’s talking him down from the adrenaline. Butters’ breathing has slowed, his shoulders less tense, his face still a little pale but no longer panicked.

And then, as if sensing you watching, Kenny lifts his gaze, his eyes finding yours across the room. His expression doesn’t change. Not really. But his eyes linger.

You look away and check the time on your phone and your stomach twists when you realize how late it is. Damien is going to pick you up soon. The thought feels distant, almost unreal, like something you planned ages ago rather than something happening tonight.

You exhale sharply, pushing the nerves down, and stand up from the bed. Immediately, your legs feel unsteady, a little too light, like the ground isn’t as solid as it should be. The weed is still affecting you. You blink a few times, steadying yourself before making your way toward Butters and Kenny.

Kenny steps to the side as you approach, moving out of the way like he already knows what you’re about to do. Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around Butters first, pulling him into a warm hug, rubbing his back lightly.

“You good?” you murmur, keeping your voice quiet.

Butters exhales, nodding against your shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, still a little shaky. “I think so.”

You give him another squeeze before pulling back slightly, keeping a hand on his arm. “After my date, I can come back here,” you offer. “We can just hang out or something. You don’t have to be alone.”

Butters blinks at you before smiling, the gesture small but genuine. “Yeah,” he says, voice softer now. “That’d be nice.”

You nod, giving his arm one last reassuring squeeze before finally turning toward Kenny.

He’s already watching you, his expression relaxed but focused. The second you step forward, his lips twitch, his body shifting slightly like he already knows what’s coming. You wrap your arms around him without hesitation, pressing yourself against his chest, hugging him tightly. His arms slide around you with that same casual ease, warm and solid, his grip firm against your back.

You don’t pull away immediately. Instead, you tilt your head up, looking at him, and smile. “Seriously,” you say, your voice quiet but certain. “Thank you.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes flicker over your face, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s holding onto something unspoken. Then, after a beat, his smirk returns, slow and lazy.

“Anytime, babe.”

You smile up at him before sticking your tongue out, scrunching your nose in a playful grimace. Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, his grip on you loosening as you finally step back.

“I’ll text you how it goes, yeah?” you say, adjusting your dress as you glance between him and Butters. “And you better actually reply this time.”

Kenny tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Oh, so now you want me to text you?” His voice is low and teasing.

You roll your eyes, lightly smacking his arm before stepping back fully. “Yes, asshole. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Kenny chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head like this is all just some casual conversation, like he wasn’t just kissing you not even five minutes ago. “Yeah, yeah, I got you.” He flicks his eyes over you once, slow and assessing, before lazily adding, “Have fun on your little date.”

There’s something in the way he says it, something subtle, but you don’t have time to pick it apart. You shoot him a look but decide not to push, not when your nerves are already creeping back in.

You grab your phone and bag, giving Butters one last reassuring squeeze on the arm before heading toward the door. You should be thinking about Damien, about the date, about whether or not this was all a mistake.

But as you step into the hallway, you feel it again—your lips still tingling, your heartbeat still uneven, the warmth of Kenny’s hands still lingering on your skin.

It’s been a couple of hours since you left, and Kenny shouldn’t still be thinking about you. But he is.

You’d barely been gone ten minutes before he was pulling out his phone, checking for a text that hadn’t even been sent yet. He told himself he was just making sure he didn’t miss it—because obviously, he’d respond if you actually messaged him this time. But when he caught himself doing it again twenty minutes later, he knew he was full of shit.

So, to distract himself (and Butters), he called over Cartman, Stan, and Kyle, because watching some shitty movie at Butters’ dorm was definitely better than sitting around with his own thoughts.

Now, he’s stretched out on Butters’ bed, his parka tossed onto the floor, legs crossed at the ankles while some generic action flick plays on the TV. Cartman is sitting on Butters’ desk chair, hogging the popcorn like a gremlin, Kyle is sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the bed, and Stan is lazily leaning against the edge of Butters’ desk. Butters himself is perched at the foot of the bed, still looking mildly traumatized from earlier, but at least he’s not freaking out anymore.

Kenny should be into this—should be enjoying the mindless explosions, the dumb banter, the way Cartman keeps making fun of the movie while Stan and Kyle bicker about literally nothing. But his head isn’t here. Not really.

Because every few minutes, he glances at his phone. Still nothing.

His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, his teeth sinking into it slightly as his leg bounces against the mattress. He doesn’t check the time again, even though he wants to. It doesn’t fucking matter how late it is. You’re probably still on the date. Probably having a great fucking time. Probably—

“Dude,” Stan says suddenly, snapping Kenny out of his thoughts. “Why the hell do you look so pissed?”

Kenny blinks, realizing he’s been glowering at the TV screen without even realizing it. He exhales sharply, schooling his face back into something neutral before throwing a lazy smirk in Stan’s direction. “Just thinking about how much of a dumbass you are.”

Stan rolls his eyes, flicking a piece of popcorn at him. “Wow. Classic comeback.”

“Yeah, I’m workshopping it,” Kenny says, popping a chip into his mouth, but the momentary distraction isn’t enough to pull him back into the present. His focus drifts again, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching for his phone.

He checks his messages. Still nothing.

Kenny clicks his tongue, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him like he doesn’t give a shit. But he does. And he fucking hates that he does.

Butters, still sitting at the foot of the bed, swings his legs a little before turning toward Kenny, his expression innocent but curious. “Hey, Ken, you think [Y/N]’s date’s goin’ well?”

The entire room goes quiet. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman all turn to look at him at the same time, like someone just hit pause on the movie. Kenny feels the weight of their stares pressing against him, waiting, and he instantly regrets not leaving the second you did.

Kyle is the first to speak, eyebrows pulling together as he shifts where he’s sitting on the floor. “Wait—she has a date?”

Butters, completely unaware of the way Kenny’s jaw tenses, nods. “Yeah! With Damien.”

Cartman throws his head back and howls. It’s loud, obnoxious, and grating in the way only Cartman can manage, and Kenny immediately wants to deck him.

“Oh, that’s fucking priceless,” Cartman wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “The girl we spent our whole goddamn childhood with—the girl who’s never held hands, never kissed anyone, never even had a fucking crush—finally gets a date, and it’s with Damien fucking Thorn?”

Kyle shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing at his temple. “Of all people.”

Stan snorts, pushing himself up slightly from the desk. “Is she trying to summon Satan, or—?”

Kenny doesn’t say shit. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t react the way he usually would. Because for the past two fucking hours, he’s been sitting here, waiting for a text, waiting for a reason to stop thinking about your lips, about how fucking soft you were against him, about the way your hands fisted into his shirt like you didn’t want to let go.

And now, all he can think about is you—with him. You, sitting across from Damien at some dimly lit restaurant, playing with your drink, tucking your hair behind your ear. You, laughing at something he said, eyes bright, that soft smile on your lips. You, nervous but excited, wondering if you’ll kiss him goodnight.

Kenny’s stomach turns, something bitter rising in his throat.

Cartman is still laughing, still rambling about how it’s so fucking weird that you, you, are on a date at all, and it’s pissing Kenny the fuck off.

He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening, forcing himself to stay neutral, forcing himself to keep his expression lazy, unreadable. He leans back against the bed, grabbing his phone again, spinning it once in his palm.

“Yeah, well,” Kenny finally mutters, voice even, controlled. “Guess she finally got sick of waiting around.”

Cartman turns to Kenny, still grinning like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He leans forward in the chair, resting his elbow on Butters’ desk, and points at Kenny with a smirk that already pisses him off. The kind of look Cartman gets when he knows he’s about to dig into something good.

“Dude, come on,” Cartman says, shaking his head with a loud laugh. “I thought you got over your little crush on her. It’s been years, man.”

Kyle sighs through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances at Kenny. His voice isn’t teasing like Cartman’s, but there’s still that familiar hint of exasperation in it. “Seriously, man? You’ve had, what, like—multiple hookups, a few relationships? You’ve dated both guys and girls, and you’re still stuck on her?” He tilts his head, his expression softer than Cartman’s but still scrutinizing. “It’s not a big deal if you still like her or whatever, but…” He hesitates for a second, like he’s actually trying to be careful with his words. “You don’t think that’s kind of unhealthy?”

Kenny flips his phone in his hand, keeping his face blank, his fingers the only part of him that moves. He could laugh, make a joke, brush it off. Could tell them all to fuck off and mind their own business. But for some reason, he doesn’t say anything.

Stan, still lounging against the desk, tilts his head and smirks. “Dude, you need to get laid.”

Kyle groans, already rubbing his temples. “That’s not even the problem, Stan. He does get laid.”

“Yeah, but apparently, it’s not enough,” Cartman chimes in, his grin widening. “Because if it was, he wouldn’t be sitting here, waiting for his childhood crush to text him back while she’s out with the literal son of Satan.”

Kenny clenches his jaw but doesn’t change his expression. He keeps his posture loose, casual, like none of this is phasing him, like he hasn’t spent the past two hours waiting for his phone to light up, like his stomach hasn’t been twisted in knots since the second you left.

It pisses him off how easy it is for them to pick at him, how it takes barely anything for them to know. He’s never been obvious about it. He’s never acted weird about you. Sure, he’s flirted, but he flirts with everyone. He’s never admitted anything, never made it a thing, never once told you. But it doesn’t matter. Because they all see it. They have for years.

He could play it off, act like they’re just reaching, like he’s only checking in because you’re his best friend and of course he’s going to make sure you’re okay. That would be easy. That’s what he should do.

But instead, he just shrugs, rolling onto his side and stretching out further on the bed, tossing his phone onto the pillow next to him. “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice flat. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

Cartman snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure, dude.”

Kyle gives him a look but doesn’t push it. “Whatever, man. I just hope she’s having a good time.”

Stan doesn’t say anything for a second, then kicks lightly at the mattress near Kenny’s leg. “You wanna stop being all moody and actually watch the movie?”

Kenny doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t argue, doesn’t let them see the way his jaw tightens slightly as he shifts against the mattress.

Butters, ever the optimist, glances over at him and brightens up, like he’s trying to steer the conversation into something less tense. He claps his hands together once before pointing at Kenny with a knowing look.

“Don’t worry about it, Ken! I heard Tammy Warner’s gonna be at Tolkien’s party this weekend.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, his lips twitching like he’s debating whether or not to dignify that with a response. He props himself up on one elbow, glancing over at Butters with a lazy smirk. “Oh yeah?”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! She broke up with her boyfriend a couple weeks ago, and—well, y’know how she is. She’s probably lookin’ to, uh… ya know…” He trails off, his cheeks going pink, and gestures vaguely with his hands.

Stan snorts. “Hook up with the first guy who gives her a drink?”

Kyle shakes his head. “Jesus, Stan.”

Cartman just grins. “Nah, that is how she operates, though. And Kenny’s always been on her list.”

Kenny chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. He knows exactly what they’re trying to do—trying to get him to shake this off, trying to remind him that there are others, that there’s no reason for him to be sitting here like some lovesick loser. It’s almost funny, because any other time, he’d be all over it. He’d make some crude joke, lean into it, turn the conversation into something easy, something typical.

But right now, the thought of fucking around with Tammy Warner or anyone else just feels boring. Still, he plays along, because that’s what he does.

“She has been lookin’ at me a lot lately,” Kenny muses, smirking as he stretches his arms over his head. “Guess I wouldn’t mind giving her a little attention.”

Cartman barks out a laugh. “Oh, please. If you show up, she’s gonna throw herself at you the second you walk in.”

Kyle makes a face. “Do you even like her, though?”

Kenny shrugs, rolling onto his back again. “She’s fun. Hot. Knows what she wants.” His tone is casual, dismissive, like he’s already mentally moving on from the subject. “What’s not to like?”

Butters nods quickly, like he’s relieved to see Kenny back to acting like himself. “See? So, no reason to be mopin’ around! You got options, buddy!”

Stan hums in agreement. “And Tolkien’s parties always get wild. Even I have a good time, and I hate parties.”

Kenny just smirks, grabbing his phone off the pillow next to him and spinning it in his fingers again. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”

But his eyes flicker to the screen anyway. Still no text.

An hour passes. The movie is ending, the credits rolling over an overdramatic orchestral score that doesn’t fit the half-dead energy in the room. Cartman is slumped in Butters’ desk chair, his arms crossed over his stomach, eyes half-lidded like he’s been in and out of sleep for the past twenty minutes. Kyle sits on the floor, absently scrolling through his phone, barely paying attention to anything. Stan, now stretched across the foot of the bed, lazily reaches for the last of the snacks, finishing off an open bag of chips. Butters, still sitting near Kenny, yawns loudly, rubbing his eyes like he’s about two seconds from passing out himself.

Kenny barely watched the movie. His thoughts have been elsewhere all night, drifting between wanting to stop thinking about you and failing miserably at it. He tells himself it’s not a big deal, that you’re probably still out, that he’s wasting his time even checking. But despite all of that, his gaze keeps flicking to his phone. And then, as if the universe wanted to personally fuck him over, the screen lights up.

His entire body goes still for half a second before he reaches for it, his thumb swiping across the screen. He already knows it’s from you—he doesn’t even have to check. And then he reads it.

you: date went great btw!!! he said i looked rlly good and he was soooo sweet. like literally the nicest guy ever. and guess what?? he kissed me at the end!!!

The words sit there, glowing back at him, far too fucking cheery, far too casual, like they aren’t currently making his stomach twist into a tight, ugly knot. He reads it twice, three times, like maybe it’ll change, like maybe he misread it, like maybe he’s fucking hallucinating. But the words don’t change.

You kissed him. Damien fucking Thorn.

His jaw locks, his fingers tightening around his phone. He tells himself it shouldn’t matter. It’s not a big deal. It was one date. Of course it ended with a kiss. Of course Damien was sweet to you. Of course he complimented you. What kind of guy wouldn’t? Kenny isn’t surprised. But it still pisses him off. It’s not like he’s ever had a claim on you. It’s not like he’s ever done anything about it. He has no right to be pissed off. No right to feel anything about it at all.

So instead of saying what he actually wants to say, he types out the easiest, laziest response he can manage.

kenny: damn, first date and he’s already makin moves? u really are growin up on me 🤧

His thumb hesitates over the send button for a second longer than it should. Then, finally, he taps the screen.

The response comes back almost immediately.

you: shut upppp 😭 it was cute ok

Kenny exhales slowly through his nose, staring at the message before clicking his phone off and tossing it back onto the bed. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

Across the room, Kyle stretches with a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, I’m calling it. I got an early class tomorrow.”

Stan nods, shoving his phone into his pocket as he pushes himself up off the floor. “Yeah, same. You heading out, Cartman?”

Cartman doesn’t even open his eyes. “Five more minutes.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, grabbing a pillow off Butters’ bed and chucking it at him. “Get your fat ass up.”

Kenny barely listens.

His mind is elsewhere, replaying your text over and over again, the words echoing in his head like a dull, relentless pulse. He can still feel the way your body pressed against his earlier, the way your lips moved with his, the way you had looked at him right before you left. And now you’re probably sitting in your dorm, smiling down at your phone, thinking about someone else.

It’s been a few days since you practiced kissing with Kenny, and you’ve been doing your best not to think about it.

Some moments, it’s easy. When you’re in class, when you’re studying, when you’re texting Damien and planning your next date. But then, there are times—like when you catch Kenny watching you across the dining hall, when you reapply lip gloss and your lips still tingle faintly—where it sneaks back into your mind before you can stop it.

Now, though, you’re focused on Damien. You’re walking together toward your next class, the air crisp with the last bite of winter, the sun filtering through the trees overhead. He walks with an effortless kind of confidence, hands tucked into the pockets of his black coat, his silver chain catching in the light when he turns his head. And being around him still makes you nervous. So you talk. Maybe a little too much.

“…And then Cartman had the nerve to say I looked like a Hot Topic employee who got fired for shoplifting,” you say, throwing your hands up. “Like, first of all, rude. Second of all, if anyone’s getting arrested for stealing, it’s him.”

Damien lets out a quiet laugh, lips twitching at the corners. “I mean, I think you could pull off the shoplifter look. Maybe a black beanie. A fuck capitalism pin on your bag.”

You groan, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Not you too.”

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, his smirk growing. “The vibe is there.”

You roll your eyes but grin anyway, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your sweater as you walk.

It still feels surreal that this is happening. That Damien, who always has people hanging onto his every word in class, is walking with you like this is normal. That he kissed you. That he wants to see you again. Your stomach twists, but you push through it, forcing yourself to act normal.

“So,” you say, shifting the conversation, “are you still coming to Tolkien’s party this weekend?”

Damien hums, tilting his head slightly. “Probably. I don’t really do parties, but I feel like if I don’t go, I’ll have to hear about it for the next three months.”

You laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He glances at you, his expression relaxed but interested. “Are you going?”

You nod. “Yeah, Kenny and the guys are going, and Butters practically begged me to be his drinking buddy.”

Damien smirks. “Good to know your priorities are in order.”

You laugh again, and for the first time since you started walking together, the nerves ease. The conversation flows easily after that, moving from music to class to whatever dumb shit Cartman sent in the group chat this morning. You don’t even notice how much time has passed until you round the corner of the building, and the topic changes so fast you almost miss it.

“Speaking of Tolkien’s party,” Damien says, his voice casual, “it’s probably gonna be a shitshow. People will be hooking up left and right.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Oh. Yeah, probably.”

Damien smirks, glancing at you with interest. “Ever had a drunken hookup before?”

Your face heats up immediately. “What? No.” You let out an awkward laugh, waving your hands dismissively. “I mean, I don’t really do that kind of thing.”

Damien hums, his smirk never fading. “No judgment. Some people like that whole ‘bad decisions’ thrill.” He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to piece together something in his head. “So, what do you do?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “Uh.”

Damien stops walking for a moment, turning slightly toward you, one eyebrow raising when you don’t answer right away. “Wait.” His smirk grows a little, teasing but still curious. “You haven’t?”

Your stomach clenches, and you glance away, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. “I—um.” You hesitate before letting out a breath. “I mean. Not really.”

Damien watches your face closely. Then, after a beat, his amusement shifts into something more thoughtful. “Like… at all?”

You wince, laughing a little at how awkward this has become. “Yeah.” You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. “I’m not exactly experienced. Or whatever.”

Damien is quiet for a moment, then he exhales, the smirk on his lips easing into something closer to a smile. His eyes soften slightly, and his voice comes out smooth, calm. “That’s actually kind of cute.”

You stare at him, caught completely off guard. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything, like he isn’t making your stomach flip.

Before you can even begin to respond, he continues, his tone light but reassuring. “You don’t need to stress about that kind of thing. It’s not a big deal.” He shrugs, still looking at you with that same relaxed expression. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

You blink up at him, still processing, but the way he says it—the way he doesn’t make it weird or tease you—makes the tension in your chest loosen. You exhale, your grip on your bag finally relaxing.

“Yeah,” you say after a second, your voice softer now. “I guess you’re right.”

Damien grins. “I usually am.”

You roll your eyes, but when you glance at him again, you’re smiling. A real smile, not the small, polite ones you’ve been giving him all day, but a bright, genuine one that takes over your whole face before you even realize it.

Damien looks at you, his expression shifting slightly. His smirk doesn’t quite drop, but the way he watches you changes, like he wasn’t expecting that reaction. Like it threw him off for just a second.

You hesitate for only a moment before smiling again, pushing through the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. “Thanks for walking me,” you say, shifting your weight from foot to foot before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

The second you pull away, heat creeps up your neck, your body reacting before your brain fully processes what you just did. It wasn’t a big deal—just a small, fleeting thing—but the way Damien’s smirk grows makes your stomach twist.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “No problem,” he says easily, voice smooth. “I’ll text you later.”

You nod, mumbling a soft “okay” before turning toward the lecture hall doors. You feel his gaze on you as you step inside, but you don’t look back.

The second you sit down, you let out a slow breath, pulling out your phone and unlocking it without thinking. Your fingers move automatically as you tap open your messages and start typing to Kenny.

you: bro i just had the wildest convo w damien on the way to class. i accidentally told him i have no experience and he was like oh that’s cute lol

You hit send, staring at the screen for a second before typing again.

you: i literally almost died but he was nice abt it

A few moments pass. You glance up at the front of the lecture hall, half-listening as people settle into their seats. Your professor hasn’t arrived yet, so you check your phone again. Kenny’s typing bubble appears, then disappears. Then, finally, his reply pops up.

kenny: yeah? that’s great

You frown slightly at the screen. That’s… not the response you were expecting. Kenny’s usually quick with teasing, always throwing in some dumb joke or a sarcastic remark. But this? This is short. Blunt. Almost dismissive.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

you: ur not gonna roast me for it? damn. personal growth 🫡

This time, his reply is almost immediate.

kenny: nah, just busy

You stare at the screen. He’s never been this short with you before. Even when he was actually busy, he’d still throw in something snarky. Before you can think too much about it, your professor walks in, signaling the start of class. You sigh, slipping your phone back into your bag, but the feeling lingers, nagging at the back of your mind.

It’s the night of Tolkien’s party, and your dorm room is in total chaos. Clothes are piled onto your bed, half your makeup bag is scattered across your desk, and an open energy drink sits precariously close to your curling iron. Red is perched on her bed, legs crossed, lazily sipping from her drink as she watches you sift through outfits with mild amusement. Butters sits cross-legged on the floor, fidgeting with his sweater sleeves, looking between you and Red like he’s trying to decide if he should offer input or keep quiet.

“You’re really committing to this look, huh?” Red teases, tilting her head as she watches you adjust your top in the mirror.

You give her a flat look through the reflection. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She grins, her eyes flicking over you before she takes another sip of her drink. “I mean, I get dressing up for a party, but this is definitely more effort than usual.”

You roll your eyes, turning to Butters for backup. “Do I look that different?”

Butters, who had been nervously picking at a loose thread on his sweater, quickly looks up, blinking at you. “Uh—no! I mean—uh, you always look nice! But, um…” He hesitates, then gestures weakly at your makeup. “You did do, uh, a little more than usual.”

Red smirks knowingly. “She’s dressing up for herself, obviously.”

You groan, throwing a shirt at her. She ducks out of the way, laughing. “You guys are so annoying,” you mutter, smoothing out your skirt.

Once you’re finally finished, you grab your lip gloss, swiping it on before clicking the cap shut. As you toss it back into your bag, you hesitate, fingers trailing over the strap before you turn toward Butters. “Hey, have the guys been acting weird to you?”

Butters blinks, caught off guard. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know,” you say, frowning slightly. “It just feels like they’ve been avoiding something. Or avoiding me, I guess.” You hesitate before adding, “Kenny especially.”

Butters tilts his head in thought. “Now that you mention it… maybe a little? I mean, Stan and Kyle seem normal, but they have been kinda weird in group chat. And Kenny…” He trails off, rubbing his arm. “I dunno. He’s just been quiet. You did say he was acting different after your date, right?”

You exhale, nodding. “Yeah. I texted him about it, and he barely reacted. Then when I tried to bring it up again, he just brushed it off.”

Red shrugs, standing up and stretching. “Maybe he’s just got other shit going on.”

Butters nods, seeming to agree. “Yeah! It could just be school stress or, uh, life stuff.”

You purse your lips, unconvinced. “Maybe.”

Still, the unease lingers. Kenny has never been the kind of guy to keep things to himself. If something was bothering him, he’d either say it outright or joke about it until it wasn’t a big deal anymore. This silence, this distance, isn’t like him.

Red claps her hands together. “Alright, we going or what? If we keep standing around, we’re gonna miss the fun.”

You shake off your thoughts, forcing a smirk as you grab your bag. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

The three of you pile into an Uber, the ride buzzing with Red’s excitement and Butters’ nervous energy. Red is already scrolling through her phone, texting people to see who’s here, while Butters keeps adjusting his sweater sleeves, mumbling something about how he really shouldn’t drink too much tonight. You mostly just stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and unease.

By the time you pull up to Tolkien’s house, the party is already in full swing. Music pulses through the air, the bass heavy enough to rattle the pavement under your feet. Groups of people are scattered across the front lawn, some laughing loudly, others deep in conversation, red solo cups in almost everyone’s hands. The porch is packed, people leaning against the railing, the front door swinging open every few seconds as more people push inside.

Red takes one look at the scene and grins. “Alright, I’m off.”

Before you can even respond, she’s already disappearing into the crowd, slipping effortlessly between people like she’s done this a hundred times before. You barely catch a glimpse of her bright red hair before she’s gone, leaving you and Butters standing at the entrance.

Butters swallows, glancing up at you. “Uh… kitchen?”

You nod. “Kitchen.”

The two of you weave through the crowded hallway, the air thick with the smell of alcohol, weed, and too many different perfumes and colognes mixing together. People are already getting sloppy—someone bumps into your shoulder, laughing loudly, barely glancing at you before stumbling toward the living room. The music is louder in here, some bass-heavy rap song vibrating against the walls.

The kitchen is just as packed, but at least it’s easier to move. Butters heads straight for the counter, eyeing the array of bottles like he’s trying to calculate which one is least likely to kill him. You hover nearby, arms crossed, keeping a close watch. Butters is a lightweight—last time he drank too much, he spent two hours apologizing to everyone at a party before throwing up in Stan’s backyard.

He grabs a bottle of vodka, hesitating before pouring some into his cup. “Uh. Maybe I should mix it with something.”

You grab a random soda from the counter and hand it to him. “Yeah, maybe don’t kill yourself in the first five minutes.”

Butters mumbles a thanks, focusing on making his drink. You take the moment to glance around the kitchen, scanning the crowd. You recognize most of the people here—Tolkien’s parties always bring in a mix of friend groups, but it’s mostly familiar faces. Wendy is leaning against the fridge, deep in conversation with Bebe. Craig and Tweek are off to the side, already looking half-drunk. A couple of freshmen linger near the drinks, clearly out of their element.

But something feels off. Then, you realize why. Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, and Stan aren’t here.

You frown slightly, checking your phone, but there are no new texts from any of them. Kyle said he was coming. Stan always shows up to these things, even if he complains about it. Cartman never misses an opportunity to drink for free. And Kenny? Kenny loves parties. So where the hell are they?

Butters must notice your expression because he looks up from his drink. “Everything okay?”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah. Just… surprised the guys aren’t here yet.”

Butters glances around too, frowning. “Huh. That is kinda weird. I thought Kyle said he was coming?”

“He did,” you say, checking your phone again. Still nothing. You glance at the time. “Maybe they’re just late.”

Butters shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe.”

You stay by the kitchen counter, still keeping an eye on Butters while making small talk with people who pass by. The party has only gotten louder, the music pulsing through the walls, the crowd swelling as more people arrive. Butters seems to be holding his liquor well enough—his words are still clear, and he’s not swaying yet, but his usual awkwardness has definitely increased. You’re mid-sentence, teasing him about how he always nurses his drinks too carefully, when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“There you are.”

You turn to see Damien standing at the edge of the kitchen, his sharp gray eyes scanning the room before settling on you. He looks good, as always—dressed in a fitted black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his silver chain catching the light. His smirk is easy, confident, like he already knows you were waiting for him.

“Butters,” Damien acknowledges, giving him a nod before turning his attention back to you. “I was wondering when I’d run into you.”

Your stomach flips slightly, but you push it down, giving him a smile. “Well, you found me.”

He steps closer, his hands still in his pockets, his eyes flicking over you in a way that feels intentional. “You look good tonight.”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you roll your eyes, playing it off. “Oh, so I don’t usually look good?”

Damien chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

Before you can respond, Butters lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. You glance at him and immediately notice how stiff he looks, gripping his cup like it’s his only lifeline. He’s awkward a lot, but right now, it feels different.

“You okay, dude?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Butters nods way too quickly. “Oh! Yeah! Just—uh—just drinkin’ my drink!” He takes a sip, avoiding eye contact.

You blink at him, confused, but before you can say anything else, movement from the doorway catches your eye. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman finally walk into the kitchen.

Your stomach tenses slightly. It’s not that you weren’t expecting them—it’s that something about the way they enter the room feels… off. They move together, like they were just talking about something before stepping inside. And the second they see you, all three of them hesitate for a split second.

Cartman recovers first. His face stretches into a grin before he barks out a short, amused laugh. “Oh, this is fucking hilarious.”

You barely have a second to process what that means before he’s walking straight toward you. Kyle lets out a long, pointed sigh like he already knows where this is going and wants no part of it. Stan doesn’t even acknowledge it, heading straight for the counter, grabbing a bottle, and pouring himself a drink like he’s bracing himself for whatever bullshit is about to happen.

Before you can move, Cartman slings an arm around your shoulder and squeezes, his grip firm like he’s making a show of how friendly he is.

“Ohhh, look at you,” he drawls, drawing out the words with a smirk. “Little miss hopeless romantic, out here at a party, all dressed up and ready to impress.” He pats your shoulder dramatically. “I’m so proud.”

You groan, shoving at his arm. “Cartman, get off.”

Cartman only tightens his hold for a second before finally letting go, though he doesn’t step back. Instead, his eyes flick to Damien, giving him an exaggerated once-over before tilting his head.

“So,” Cartman says, still smirking, “I take it you two have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

Damien, to his credit, doesn’t react much. He just raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? And?”

Cartman snorts, grabbing a solo cup off the counter. “Nothing. Just interesting.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why do you sound like you have thoughts?”

“I always have thoughts,” Cartman says, smug. He pauses for a beat, then adds, “I just think it’s fucking hilarious.”

Kyle rubs his temples, already done with this conversation. “Cartman, shut up.”

Stan takes a sip of his drink, looking like he kind of wants to see where this is going.

You glare at Cartman, resisting the urge to throw your drink at him. “Why do you even care?”

Cartman grins wider. “Oh, I don’t.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping like he’s telling some huge secret. “I just think it’s funny how fast you’re moving.”

You stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Cartman just smirks. “Relax, I’m just making conversation.” He glances toward Damien. “You don’t mind, right?”

Damien exhales through his nose, looking entirely unbothered. If anything, he seems mildly entertained, like he’s watching a show he’s only half-invested in. “You’ve always been an instigator, huh?”

Cartman grins. “It’s a gift.” He reaches for the bottle Stan was using and pours himself a drink, still smirking like he knows something you don’t. “Anyway, don’t mind me. Have fun.”

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply before turning back to Damien. “Sorry about him.”

Damien shrugs, his expression smooth, unconcerned. “I knew what I was getting into.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Stan, then back to you. “You sure you’re good?”

You nod, brushing it off, even though something about Cartman’s tone nags at the back of your mind. “Yeah. Let’s just enjoy the party.”

Cartman snorts loudly, making a dramatic show of taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, let’s just enjoy the party,” he mimics, shaking his head. “Because we all know how good you are at ignoring shit.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Cartman, I swear to God—”

Butters, ever the neutral party, speaks up before you can get into it with him. “Hey, uh—where’s Kenny?”

Stan barely looks up from his drink. “Probably getting faded or some shit.” He swirls the liquid in his cup lazily before sniggering. “Or squeezing Tammy Warner’s tits.”

Your fingers tighten around your own cup, your brain immediately latching onto that part of the sentence. “Wait. Kenny’s here?”

Stan raises an eyebrow at your reaction. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t he be?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s a good question. You don’t know why you assumed he wasn’t coming, but after the past few days—after the weird, clipped texts, the distance, the silence—it just felt… off. And now, finding out he’s here, somewhere in this house, possibly feeling up Tammy Warner?

“Did he say he was coming?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay casual.

Kyle shrugs. “I mean, yeah? It’s a party. Kenny doesn’t need to confirm he’s showing up, he just does.”

“Yeah,” Cartman adds, still smirking. “And from what I heard, he was real excited about tonight.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cartman grins wider, taking another slow sip of his drink. “I could tell you.” He pauses, dragging it out, clearly enjoying whatever game he’s playing. Then, with a shrug, he adds, “Or, you could just go find him.”

You hate that the idea tempts you. You swallow thickly, forcing the feeling down, and turn to Damien. He’s been quiet, watching the conversation unfold with a neutral expression, his sharp eyes scanning the room like he’s already a step ahead of everyone. He doesn’t look amused or annoyed—just aware.

“Wanna go somewhere else?” you ask, keeping your voice light.

Damien’s gaze flicks back to you, studying your face for a moment. He tilts his head slightly, thoughtful, before letting out a quiet breath. “Yeah,” he says, his tone smooth, steady. “Let’s get out of here.”

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, fingers curling around his as you tug him toward the living room. His grip tightens slightly, letting you lead him through the crowded kitchen, but he doesn’t question it.

As you turn, you hear Kyle say something—too low for you to catch—but whatever it is, it makes Stan, Cartman, and Butters burst out laughing.

You don’t turn back. You don’t want to know what they’re saying. Instead, you tighten your grip on Damien’s hand, weaving through the crowded living room until you find a quieter corner near the far wall. The party is louder here—the bass from the speakers thumping through the floor, conversations blending into an unrecognizable buzz—but it’s easier to focus on him now. Away from Cartman’s bullshit, away from them, away from whatever joke they were making at your expense.

Damien leans against the wall, slipping one hand into his pocket while the other stays loosely in yours for just a second longer before he lets go. His head tilts slightly as he looks at you, his expression calm, unreadable in a way that doesn’t feel unkind—just measured.

“So,” he says, his voice even, smooth beneath the noise. “Are you actually having fun, or are we faking it?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I am having fun.”

Damien raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes. “Okay, now I’m having fun. Before? Not so much.”

His lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smirk. “Because of them?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “They’re just… being them.”

Damien hums, eyes flickering past you toward the kitchen. “They’re protective of you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He looks back at you, tilting his head. “Kyle. Stan. Even Cartman, in his own weird way. They’re watching you.”

You shift your weight, glancing over your shoulder instinctively. Sure enough, even from across the room, you catch Kyle’s eyes flicking in your direction before he quickly looks away. Stan is still talking to someone, but he’s angled toward the kitchen like he’s waiting for something. Cartman is laughing at whatever dumb shit he just said, but you know he’s keeping tabs too.

You turn back to Damien, frowning slightly. “They’re not watching me. They’re just… I don’t know, being annoying.”

Damien doesn’t argue, just studies your face for a second longer before nodding. “If you say so.”

You exhale, shaking off the conversation. “I didn’t pull you over here to talk about them.”

His expression softens slightly, a small nod of agreement. “Then what did you pull me over here for?”

You grin, tilting your head. “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you without Cartman breathing down my neck.”

He chuckles, the sound low but genuine. “That’s fair.”

The conversation shifts after that. The longer you stand there, the easier it is to relax again. The knot in your stomach loosens, your shoulders drop, and soon, you’re laughing with Damien, your voice getting lost in the buzz of the party. People pass by—some friends, some classmates, a few faces you barely recognize. Heidi stops for a second to greet you before heading off with Nichole. Tolkien and Clyde walk by, Clyde already looking a little drunk as he waves dramatically in your direction. One of Damien’s friends calls out to him, making a joke you don’t quite catch, and Damien just shakes his head, amusement flickering across his face.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, just talking, but at some point, you forget about Kenny entirely. At least, until you see him. Across the room, just past a break in the crowd, Kenny stands near the staircase, one arm draped lazily around Tammy Warner’s shoulders, his fingers brushing the strap of her top. She’s pressed close to him, talking into his ear, laughing at something he just said. His expression is relaxed, easy, like he’s not thinking about anything at all.

Then, as if sensing it, Kenny’s head tilts slightly, his gaze drifting, and his eyes find yours. The noise of the party fades into the background.

For a second—just a second—you and Kenny look at each other. You don’t know what’s written all over your face, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make Kenny pause. His fingers still against Tammy’s shoulder, his posture straightens just slightly, and for a moment, his smirk fades. Then, deliberately, his hand slides further down Tammy’s back.

And before you can even process it—before you can even breathe—he turns, leans in, and kisses her.

Heat creeps up your neck so fast it’s suffocating, your fingers gripping your cup so tightly you almost crush it. You feel stupid—so, so stupid—because why does this matter? Why are you reacting like this? This isn’t new. Kenny does this. He hooks up, he flirts, he moves on. You knew that. You know that.

And yet, you’re standing here, watching his lips move against someone else’s, and it feels like your entire body is burning from the inside out.

You whip around, turning to Damien so fast it makes you dizzy. “Did you know flamingos are pink because of their diet?”

Damien barely reacts, just raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You nod way too fast, your words spilling out in an unhinged, desperate rush. “Yeah! It’s because they eat shrimp. Without it, they’d be, like, gray or something. Which is crazy, right?”

Damien blinks at you, unimpressed. “Are you okay?”

“Totally!” you say, too loudly. You force a laugh that sounds completely unnatural. “Just, uh—random fact. Thought you’d like it.”

Damien doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you, expression neutral, before glancing over your shoulder—right toward Kenny.

Your chest tightens, and guilt starts to boil under your skin, heavy and uncomfortable. You feel caught, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, but you don’t even know what. You shift slightly, fingers gripping the strap of your bag, trying to ground yourself. Your thoughts are moving too fast, spiraling in directions you don’t want them to go.

You force yourself to breathe, shaking your head. “I’m just concerned for Kenny,” you say, clearing your throat. “He hasn’t been acting normally lately.”

Damien tilts his head slightly, his sharp eyes flickering over your face like he’s measuring the weight of your words. He doesn’t react immediately, just takes a slow breath before nodding once. “Why don’t you go talk to him, then?” His voice is smooth, steady, but there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach twist. “I’ll still be around. You can find me later.”

The way he says it feels off. It’s a suggestion, but the way his words land makes it feel more like a decision that’s already been made for you. His tone isn’t upset, not annoyed or demanding, just settled, like he already knows what you’re going to do. You stare at him for a second longer, searching for something in his face, but Damien’s expression doesn’t change. He’s completely at ease, waiting for you to decide what he already expects.

You swallow the strange feeling creeping up your throat and force a weak smile. “Yeah. I’ll do that. Then I’ll come find you.”

Damien watches you for another beat before nodding. Then, without another word, he turns and disappears into the crowd, slipping back into the party effortlessly.

You stand there for a moment, letting out a slow breath before turning toward the staircase. Kenny isn’t there anymore. The uneasy feeling in your stomach tightens. He had been right in front of you, and now he’s just gone. You scan the room, moving your gaze through the party, searching for any sign of him.

The kitchen is packed, but he’s not there. The couch is crowded with people already too drunk to care about anything, and he’s not there either. The music is loud, rattling through the walls, but none of it distracts you from the fact that you’re actively looking for him now. It’s stupid, but your feet are already moving, guiding you through the crowd, brushing past familiar faces, nodding absently when someone greets you.

Finally, you spot him. Kenny is near the bottom of the staircase again, leaning against the railing, one hand in the pocket of his parka. He’s talking to someone, his head tilted slightly, his posture relaxed, but his eyes look distant, unfocused, like he isn’t really invested in the conversation. Tammy is still nearby, lingering close, her body angled toward him, but she’s not the focus of his attention anymore.

Before you can think too hard about it, you walk up to him, brushing your fingers against his arm lightly to get his attention.

“Hey.”

Kenny’s head lifts slightly, and the second his eyes meet yours, something flickers across his face. His expression shifts, like he wasn’t expecting to see you standing there, but he covers it quickly, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“Hey, look who it is,” he says, his voice smooth but carrying something beneath it. “Thought you’d be busy with your boyfriend.”

Your stomach tightens at the way he says it, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. You glance at Tammy briefly, feeling her eyes on you, then turn back to him.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you say, crossing your arms.

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t hold any humor. “Sure.”

You shift slightly, the energy between you feeling heavier than you expected. “Can we talk?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, his smirk not faltering. “We are talking.”

You exhale sharply, already irritated. “Alone.”

For a second, something in his expression hardens, like he’s debating whether or not to go along with this. He doesn’t move immediately, just watches you, his lips parting slightly before he exhales through his nose and turns to Tammy.

“I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Tammy doesn’t look offended. If anything, she looks mildly entertained, like she already knew Kenny wasn’t fully paying attention to her. She smiles, shrugging. “Sure thing, Ken.”

She disappears into the crowd, and now it’s just you and Kenny, the noise of the party buzzing around you, the air thick with alcohol and the lingering smell of weed. Kenny shifts his weight slightly, his hands back in his pockets as he watches you closely.

“So?” he says, tilting his head slightly. “What’s so important?”

His voice is easy, casual, but there’s an edge to it, something just beneath the surface that makes your stomach tighten. You cross your arms over your chest, feeling suddenly exposed, too aware of the space between you, the way his eyes are fixed on you like he’s waiting to see where you’re going with this. Your thighs press together instinctively, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help much. You bite your lip, debating in your head, your thoughts running too fast.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you are reading too much into things. Maybe Kenny is just being Kenny, and you’re standing here, making a big deal out of nothing.

But if it’s nothing, why does it feel so different?

You blink at him, inhaling slowly before finally speaking, your voice softer than you intended.

“I missed you.” The words slip out before you can second-guess them, and immediately, you see Kenny’s expression shift. His smirk twitches slightly at the corner, like he doesn’t know if he should keep up the act or actually take you seriously. His fingers flex in his pockets, but he doesn’t move.

You exhale, shifting slightly. “Are you okay?” Your voice is sincere, searching. “I just—I don’t know. I feel like you’ve been acting off lately. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, tilting his head back slightly like he’s thinking about how to respond. His jaw tenses for a second before he finally looks back at you.

“Missed me, huh?” His voice is lower, quieter, but it’s not teasing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your arms. “Of course I did.”

Kenny watches you for a long moment, his gaze flickering over your face, scanning. His usual cocky, lazy confidence seems to waver, just for a second, before he exhales and shifts his weight.

“I’m fine,” he says finally, his voice steady but missing that usual bite.

You frown slightly. “Are you?”

Kenny clicks his tongue, his smirk twitching back into place. “Nah, you’re probably just reading too much into it,” he says, throwing your own words back at you. It should feel playful, like he’s messing with you, like normal. But it doesn’t.

You frown slightly, watching him for a moment, but you push it down. Instead, you stand up a little straighter, forcing a weak smile onto your lips. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are overthinking it. If he says he’s fine, then he’s fine. You don’t want to push him if he doesn’t want to talk, so you just nod.

“Well,” you say, exhaling slowly. “I’m glad nothing’s wrong.”

You reach out before you can second-guess it, tugging lightly on the fabric of his parka, just enough to make him sway a little. It’s familiar, instinctive, the way you’ve always teased him when you wanted his attention.

Kenny glances down at where your fingers pull at his coat before looking back up at you, one eyebrow raising slightly.

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “So. You and Tammy, huh?”

His smirk twitches, but the way he shifts slightly, the way his fingers flex in his pockets, makes something tighten in your chest. It’s so small, barely noticeable, but you see it.

Kenny scoffs, shaking his head. “You say that like we’re getting married or some shit.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

He shrugs, glancing away for half a second before looking back at you. “I mean, yeah. She’s fun.”

You hum, rocking back on your heels. “Fun, huh?”

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh. “Why? You jealous?”

Your stomach clenches before you can stop it, but you keep your expression neutral. “Why would I be jealous?”

Kenny tilts his head, studying your face. His smirk is still there, but it doesn’t feel as sharp as before.

“I dunno,” he says finally, voice lazy. “Just askin’.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Well, I’m not. If you like her, then great. I just didn’t think she was your type.”

Kenny’s smirk lingers, but there’s something different behind his eyes now. “Yeah?” His voice is quieter, his head tilting slightly. “And what is my type?”

You pause, caught off guard. “I mean…” You hesitate, thinking. “I don’t know. Just… not her.”

Kenny watches you for a beat before clicking his tongue again, the smirk deepening. “Huh.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head, but the look on his face makes your stomach flip.

Before you can say anything else, someone calls his name from across the room. Kenny glances over his shoulder, exhaling sharply before looking back at you.

“Guess I should get back to my type,” he says, his smirk curling at the edges.

You blink at him, wide-eyed, something in your chest tightening. He’s turning away, about to disappear back into the party, and for some reason, the thought of that makes panic rise in your throat. You don’t want him to leave. Not yet. Not when it finally feels like you have him back, even just a little, after days of distance and weirdness.

The words come out before you can stop them. “Do you wanna ditch?”

Kenny pauses, glancing back at you, brow arching slightly. His expression flickers with curiosity, the smirk still lingering, but there’s something else there now, like consideration.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. “I mean—like, go for a drive or something? Just us?” You rub your arms, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze. “I don’t know. I kinda just wanna get out of here for a bit.”

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing his options. The party is still loud around you, people shouting, music pulsing through the walls, laughter breaking through the chaos. Tammy is somewhere in that mess, waiting for him to come back.

Then, Kenny exhales through his nose, his features relaxing. “Yeah,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

Relief floods through you so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. You nod, grabbing his wrist lightly, tugging him toward the door before either of you can change your mind. Kenny follows easily, his stride matching yours, his body warm where your fingers wrap around his skin. Neither of you look back.

By the time you push out the front door, the cold night air bites at your skin, sharp and crisp compared to the stuffy heat of the party. The front yard is still packed with people, but the noise is muffled now, distant as you make your way down the driveway.

Kenny reaches into his pocket, pulling out his keys and tossing them into the air before catching them effortlessly. “Alright, princess,” he says, glancing at you as you head toward his truck. “Where to?”

You chew your lip, thinking. “I don’t know. Just drive.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright. Just don’t start bitching if we end up in the middle of nowhere.”

You smile, climbing into the passenger seat. “No promises.”

Kenny smirks, starting the engine. The low rumble of the truck hums beneath you as he pulls out onto the road, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The party fades into the distance, swallowed by the night.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The only sounds are the steady purr of the engine, the occasional rustle of the trees as the wind picks up, and the faint hum of the radio playing some old rock song under Kenny’s breath. You watch the road, the way the headlights cut through the darkness, the lines on the pavement stretching endlessly ahead.

You don’t know why you needed to leave.There was no real reason to grab Kenny, to pull him away from the party, to make up an excuse about just wanting to drive. But the second you saw him walking away, something in you panicked. It didn’t feel right to let him go, not when things between you had been so weird lately, not when it finally felt like you had his attention again.

That’s all it is, you tell yourself. You just missed him.

Things had been off, and you hated it. Kenny had been your best friend for years, and you were just trying to fix whatever weird distance had settled between you. That’s all this was.

You glance at him, taking in the way he drives so effortlessly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against his thigh. He looks relaxed, his posture easy.

You chew your lip before finally speaking. “Sorry if I’m being clingy.”

Kenny’s fingers flex slightly against the steering wheel. He doesn’t glance at you right away, just lets out a short exhale, like he’s thinking about his answer. “You’re not,” he says finally.

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting in your seat. “I kinda am.”

Kenny finally looks at you, just for a second, before turning his attention back to the road. His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but doesn’t quite get there. “Yeah. Maybe a little.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Wow. So reassuring.”

Kenny chuckles, the sound low, amused. “Hey, you said it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. You fidget with the hem of your skirt, smoothing it out over your thighs before glancing at Kenny. “We can just tell the guys that I wasn’t feeling well,” you say, your voice casual. “And you, being the oh so gracious friend that you are, took me home.”

Kenny lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, yeah. Gracious. That’s me.” He drums his fingers lazily against the wheel. “You really think they’re gonna buy that?”

You shrug. “I mean, it’s not technically a lie.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, throwing you a sideways glance. “You weren’t feeling well?”

You hesitate, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean…” You chew your lip, exhaling. “Not really.”

Kenny hums, tilting his head slightly. “Because of the party? Or because of him?”

You stiffen, fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt. “Who?”

Kenny huffs a laugh. “Yeah, alright.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I just didn’t feel like being there anymore. That’s all.”

Kenny nods slowly, tapping his fingers against the wheel again. “Well, whatever you say, princess.”

You groan, pushing your shoulder against his arm. “Stop calling me that.”

Kenny chuckles but doesn’t respond, just keeps his focus on the road. The quiet settles between you again, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable, familiar in a way that makes you feel like you made the right decision in pulling him away from the party. You don’t ask where he’s going. You don’t really care.

event masterlist | part two | part three

#south park x reader #south park x y/n #kenny mccormick x reader #sp oneshot #south park smut #x reader #fem reader #i wanna be your boyfriend m!list

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